In the lives of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson
by hedgehogandotter
Summary: This is a sequel to Hedgehog's fic "Undisclosed Desires". It's basically just a collection of little stories combined into one story, but there is something like a storyline. Just a bit of fluffyness. Rating /might/ go up later. T for now since adult themes are and will be suggested.
1. Chapter 1: Christmas Dinner

**Hello everyone! Hedgehog here... It's been a little while, I think, though you've probably all managed perfectly. Here is it, finally; the sequel to my fic "Undisclosed Desires". I must say, since it is a collection of short stories, the style will be a little bit different, but I used "Undisclosed Desires" as a base for this, so everything that happened there has happened here as well. **  
**Disclaimer: Still don't own anything to do with Sherlock Holmes. Getting sick of writing this every time but I suppose that means I'm well on my way to write a sh*tload of fanfictions. :)  
Enjoy!**

* * *

**1. Christmas Dinner**

'Utterly pointless,' Sherlock exclaimed. 'Why should a Christmas dinner be any different from normal dinners?'

John sighed, exasperated. 'It's a tradition,' he said. 'Come on, Sherlock! It'll be fun. Mrs Hudson will be here, and Lestrade, and Molly. Even Mycroft promised to drop by for a glass or two.'

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. 'Mycroft?' he asked suspiciously. He shook his head and rolled his eyes. 'I can't say that I'll enjoy it. Or that I'll eat much. I'll be there, but don't expect any...' Sherlock made a face and waved his hands frantically, looking for the right word. 'Social frivolities or anything, whatever the courtesy might be.'

John smiled at his boyfriend from over the edge of his newspaper. 'Will you at least help me decorate the room?' He knew it was a lost cause, but he loved teasing the detective and he loved the confused looks he always got from him. He was the only one who could throw Sherlock Holmes off guard and secretly, he enjoyed it immensely.

Sherlock shuddered. 'If it concerns your guts, I might help.' The consulting detective rolled his head to the right and sighed at John's horrified expression. 'You know I don't mean that, John.' John's wide eyes didn't turn away and Sherlock grew uncomfortable. 'All right, I'll help,' he murmured, defeated.

Satisfied, John turned back to his newspaper. There was a moment of silence, before he heard Sherlock mutter from the sofa; 'Evil.'  
John grinned. This was going to be a very interesting Christmas.

* * *

'Sherlock, I am going to do some last-minute shopping and when I come back, you will be properly dressed,' John ordered from the doorway.

It was the day o their Christmas dinner and the flat has already been decorated. Sherlock had helped, thought not much, and it had ended up in a childish glitter fight between the two of them. Sherlock's dark curls were still coated with gold and silver glitter but John decided he looked quite sweet that way. But he was still in wearing his pyjamas and that ridiculous dressing gown and he would not be able to receive guests that way. Well, if anyone would be able to, Sherlock was probably on top of the list, John thought. But what John really wanted to see was how the silky dark blue shirt he had bought Sherlock for Christmas would look on his oddly muscular body. It had been expensive and Mycroft had had to help him find the right store, but Sherlock had been genuinely pleased. John had wanted to know how it would look on the detective even then, but their clothes had come off rather quickly, instead of on.

'Understood?' John made sure.

'Hmpff,' Sherlock huffed. John took it as a "yes" and turned around, leaving 221B.

When Sherlock heard the door slam, he smiled and bolted up from the sofa. He didn't know how long John would be gone, so he moved quickly.  
He sorted all the case files and other rubbish on his desk, hovered the whole apartment, even stored away his science equipment to prepare the table. Once the kitchen and the living room were as clean as possible, Sherlock dashed to his bedroom – their bedroom – and quickly undressed. He chose the new dark blue shirt John had given him, plus the smooth black suit which he knew John loved so much. He decided against a tie, as always and shot into his shoes just as he heard the key in the keyhole downstairs.

He raced to the living room again and quickly made a fire in the hearth. It cast a shadow glow over the dimly lit apartment. Sherlock decided to play his violin at the last moment before John came in.

'And, have you moved your arse and done what I told you, or – ' John stopped dead in his tracks, gaping at the scene before him. 221B was clean – had Sherlock even _hovered_? – there were no papers on the desk, no experiments lying underneath the sofa, and it was dark except for the fire and the tiny lights in the Christmas tree and around the mantelpiece.

But in the middle of it all stood Sherlock Holmes, the man he loved, impeccably dressed, still a little bit of glitter in his soft hair, playing his violin, moving slowly with the melody. John saw the passion when he played; it was one of the few moments in which Sherlock was totally at peace, his mind was not racing out of control. The music helped him to organise his mind and as much as John hated the sound of the tuning at three in the morning, he loved it when Sherlock played a beautiful peace and especially when it calmed him down.

Sherlock turned around after a long finishing note and looked John deeply in the eyes.

'Merry Christmas, John.'

John couldn't answer; it seemed as if his tongue had disappeared and all he could do was stare at Sherlock, his mouth half open.

Sherlock chuckled and then asked softly; 'Do you like it?'

'Sherlock,' John managed to whisper. He dropped his shopping bags and took a few steps towards the tall man. He put his arms around Sherlock's slim waist and he whispered, 'I love it.' He then noticed the smooth material Sherlock was wearing and he smiled. 'You're wearing my present,' he muttered. He put one hand on Sherlock's back and one on his chest, loving how the smooth fabric hugged his muscular body.

'And you even dressed up,' John said, looking in Sherlock's eyes. He had been right; the dark blue colour of the shirt would complement his pale green blue eyes perfectly.

Sherlock smiled. 'Christmas does not mean much to me, but it obviously does to you. And you do mean a lot to me. I wanted to make you happy. Are you happy?' he asked, a hint of worry in his keen eyes.

'I couldn't be happier.'

Sherlock's hesitant face transformed into a happy one, glowing with pride. He took John's head in his hands and leant forward to kiss him softly.

'Merry Christmas,' he repeated quietly.

'Merry Christmas,' John whispered back. They hugged each other tightly for a while, then John decided that since it was already half past four, the guests would arrive in a few hours and he better get started on the final preparations.

'If you like, you can help me with cooking,' John said hopefully when he started walking towards the kitchen. He picked up his shopping bags which he has dropped earlier and put them on the clean kitchen table. 'Or you can just sit there and do nothing,' he said when he saw that Sherlock hadn't moved.

'I like to watch you cook,' the detective said when he glanced up at John. 'I believe that cooking in tedious. But watching you do it...' Sherlock blushed. He followed John into the kitchen and stood opposite him, on the other side of the kitchen table. He folded his arms across his chest and grinned. 'You're cute when you cook,' he said matter-of-factly.

John's stomach felt hollow, as if he'd missed a step on the stairs. He always felt like that when Sherlock complimented him. John continued with unpacking the groceries and decided not to look at Sherlock or he'd never get to cooking. 'You think so?' he asked nonchalantly. The idea seemed ridiculous; why would he look cute while cooking?

His confusion must have been clear on his face because Sherlock chuckled and walked around the kitchen table, standing behind John as he put his arms around John's waist. He put his head on John's shoulder and he muttered in his ear; 'The way you stick out your tongue in concentration, the way you wipe your brow, the way you handle a knife with absolute certainty, or how you stir a sauce. I could look at you, watch you all day.'  
Smiling, John took one of Sherlock's hands that were around his waist. He laid his other hand on Sherlock's cheek and he gave him a small kiss.  
They were just getting into the moment when they heard a soft knock on the door. It was Mrs Hudson; her identifiable "hoo-hoo!" was unmistakeable. Reluctantly, they broke the kiss, but Sherlock had no intention of letting go of John. He kept his arms around John's waist and his  
chin on John's shoulder.

'Oh, did I interrupt anything?' she asked cheerfully, making her way to the kitchen. 'It's wonderful here! John, dear, you've really tried your hardest, haven't you?'

'Oh, I didn't do it, Mrs Hudson,' John said with a smile. He looked at Sherlock, a fond expression on his face. 'All Sherlock's doing.'  
Mrs Hudson frowned, looking at Sherlock with an amused smile. 'Really? Well, dear, you did a wonderful job. The guests are coming in three hours; do you need a hand in the kitchen?'

'Thanks, Mrs Hudson, but I've got it all under control,' John said politely. He heard a snort next to him and he rolled his eyes. 'I do, Sherlock. Unlike you I don't leave a severed foot in the oven.'

'I do not!' Sherlock said indignantly. 'It was an important stage in my experiment. I don't just _leave _it there.'

Mrs Hudson shook her head, smiling delightedly. I'll leave you to your bickering, then. Make sure you are presentable when the guests arrive.'  
John blushed at the implication but Sherlock merely grinned. 'Will do, Mrs Hudson,' he said, softly nibbling John's earlobe. John blushed even heavier; Mrs Hudson was not even out the door yet.

'Sherlock...' he tried to say in a nagging voice, but it sounded more like a moan.

'What?'

John bit his lip to stop himself from making any louder noises; Sherlock's lips were at his neck, tugging at the skin, pressing soft little kisses everywhere. 'Don't do that with Mrs Hudson around,' he muttered.

'Why not?'

'It's not – ah... – it's not decent, Sherlock.'

'Who cares about decent?' Sherlock whispered, his lips brushing John's skin. His hands on John's waist tightened, pulling him closer to his chest.

'I do,' John said, but when Sherlock nuzzled in his neck, he added; 'To a certain extent. I need to get cooking, love. You can watch or help; as long as you do something, don't go and sulk around in the living room, okay?'

'Hmm.' With a sigh of reluctance, Sherlock withdrew and perched himself on a kitchen chair. 'Then I'll be watching you, Doctor,' he said, holding his head in his hands.

* * *

John felt slightly uncomfortable cooking with Sherlock's pale eyes constantly watching him, but he managed to get everything done in time. Sherlock hadn't moved the entire time that John was in the kitchen and he still wasn't bored. He could look at John forever, notice something new, wonder about something old. Try to figure out how this amazing man had been able to stir deep feelings in him, feelings he had successfully suppressed for years. Try to figure out how he returned his love for him.

Forty minutes after John had finished cooking, it was a quarter to eight and the doorbell rang for the first time. They let Mrs Hudson open the door and minutes later Lestrade strode through the door, a wrapped present that was obviously a liquor bottle in his hands.

'Happy Christmas, everybody!' he exclaimed happily. John shook his hand and greeted him back, nudging Sherlock forward. He shot John a desperate look, but all he got was a comforting hand on the small of his back. He cleared his throat and began rather awkwardly, 'Well, Lestrade – Greg – Lestrade… I know we've had our differences, and I mean to say that all of those are not forgotten when I say "merry Christmas". I do acknowledge that you are one of the most competent of Scotland Yard, unlike Donovan or – God help him - Anderson. So – merry Christmas.'  
Sherlock turned around, gave John a small kiss and went to the kitchen to talk to Mrs Hudson.

'Isn't he adorable?' John sighed, looking after his boyfriend.

Lestrade laughed. 'Perhaps. To you, at least. How long are you together, now?' he asked curiously.

'Almost three months,' John answered. 'I do hope he remembers, though I don't know what to expect if he does. I suppose I'll just have to wait and see…'

Lestrade chuckled and shot a quick glance at Sherlock, talking to Mrs Hudson in the kitchen. His voice sounded musing when he answered, 'He does seem… happier now, doesn't he? I don't know what you've done to him, John, but he needed it. I wish he'd been a little more like this when I first met him all those years ago.'

'Luckily Mike introduced me to him. I hope he'll be able to drop by tonight – he still has to text me. Harry will be here as well, and I still have to tell her about…'

'Sherlock.' It wasn't a question.

'Yes,' John sighed. 'And Mycroft will come during dinner as well. Molly doesn't even know yet! God, this will be an interesting evening…'

* * *

Half an hour later, all the guests had arrived – even Mike Stamford – and they were sitting at the table; Mrs Hudson at one end, Mike at the other. Sherlock sat at Mrs Hudson's right hand side, John ext to him and Harry next to him. Mycroft sat opposite from her, next to Lestrade, and Molly sat on his other side, at Mrs Hudson's left hand side. John had proudly served a roasted chicken and turkey, while Mrs Hudson and Sherlock placed the side dishes on the table.

'Well; merry Christmas and dig in!' John said happily when everybody sat down once more. Sherlock made a face when John cute the meat and gave everyone their share – including Sherlock. He had promised to eat something, to make John happy, but his boyfriend was filling his plate a bit too enthusiastically for his liking. Sherlock sighed deeply and decided not to argue; he did not want to start an argument.

'Before we start eating, I want to tell the ones that don't know yet about… something,' John began, swiftly looking at Sherlock on his left. 'Molly, Mike, Harry – ' John looked at Mycroft, who smiled politely. 'I know what you are going to say, Doctor Watson, I can assure you that it is not news to me.'

John frowned, a bit disturbed, but he turned his attention to Mike, Molly and Harry again. He suddenly felt a lump in his throat, but a comforting hand closed around his under the table. John decided that showing them was the best way to tell them, so he placed their joined hands on the table. He took a moment before he said, 'Sherlock and I are together.'

There was a moment of silence in which Molly stared at them with wide eyes, Harry frowned and Mike looked utterly bewildered. Then, Mike and Harry burst out in laughter.

'Finally, mate!' Mike chuckled. 'Ever since I read your blog I wondered when I'd see you two get it on.'

Sherlock smiled stiffly, but kept his hand firmly around John's. John smiled shyly and turned towards his sister. She looked at him with an amused smile and a sparkle in her dark blue eyes – the same colour as John's, Sherlock noticed. It was one of the few things that made her resemble her brother in facial features.

Harry laughed softly and quirked an eyebrow. 'I would be a hypocrite if I didn't accept it, John. Don't expect though that I won't make jokes about it.'

Sherlock chuckled for real now; he decided that Harry had just the right amount of John in her that made her likeable. 'Don't worry, I tease him all the time,' he said softly and he kissed John briefly on the mouth. Mrs Hudson and Mike smiled delightedly, Mycroft and Lestrade looked at each other, seemingly uncomfortable, but with an accepting sparkle in their eyes, Harry giggled and Molly smiled awkwardly.

John blushed and looked Sherlock in the eyes a little longer than necessary before he turned to Molly. 'And what do you think?' he asked. Sherlock might have been blind to her obvious attraction to him, but John knew better.

Molly smiled shyly but answered in a clear voice. 'I think that if anyone is good for him, John, it's you. And the other way around,' she added after a moment of thought. Mrs Hudson and Lestrade nodded in agreement. Mycroft spoke up after a while as well.

'Even I have to admit that that is true. Sherlock has a stubborn tendency to ignore what other people say, and John got him to tidy the flat. Well done. Doctor Watson,' he said appreciatively.

'Do you have cameras in our house or something?' John asked and Sherlock chuckled.

'I do, but I don't need those to tell that Sherlock would only allow himself to remove the experiments that take over the whole apartment.'  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he couldn't keep himself from smiling. A happiness filled his chest, one he could not identify. John was still holding his  
hand and he was surrounded by the people he cared about most. Perhaps this was what it felt like to feel complete.

* * *

The evening progressed nicely. There was a pleasant atmosphere and they talked about all sorts of topics. They all emptied their plates - even Sherlock, though he finished it by the time Mike filled his plate for a third time.

Sherlock even participated in some of the conversations, quickly looking at John for approval about something he'd said of which he wasn't entirely sure.

John served dessert around nine o'clock – a big chocolate pudding. Sherlock swore under his breath; despite his lack of appetite, he had always had a soft spot for pudding. He allowed John to give him a piece though, and he intended to eat it. John wanted him to, after all, he told himself.  
After everyone got a piece (Mike and unusually big one) John sat down again next to his boyfriend, who, to his surprise, was well on his way to licking his plate clean. Sherlock noticed him watching him and looked at John from the corner of his eyes. 'What?' he asked.

'Nothing,' John replied, turning to his own pudding. 'You're sweet when you eat pudding,' he added in a whisper, so only Sherlock could hear it.  
Sherlock's cheeks turned pink and John laughed. He touched Sherlock's knee briefly under the table and Sherlock smiled. Apparently, the rest had noticed that something was going on between them, for Harry joked fondly, 'You're supposed to kiss under the mistletoe at Christmas, right?'  
Mike laughed, Mrs Hudson smiled hopefully, Lestrade chuckled, Molly giggled and even Mycroft cracked a smile.

'Yeah, like that's going to happen!' Lestrade sniggered over the edge of his wine glass. 'Not if it's up to Sherlock, anyway.'

Sherlock frowned, his spoon in mid-air on the way to his mouth. 'What do you mean by that?' he asked. 'I am perfectly fine with kissing John.'

'Prove it, then. Later tonight, under the mistletoe,' Harry joined in.

'But we don't _have _mistletoe!' John finally opened his mouth. His cheeks were as red as the clothes of the little Santa that stood on top of the mantelpiece.

Lestrade grinned and fished something from his presents. It was a little branch of mistletoe. Sherlock smiled affectionately when John sighed, exasperated. 'Fine. Fine; Sherlock and I will snog later this evening. If you're okay with that, that is,' he murmured to his boyfriend. Sherlock raised his eyebrows and grinned mischievously. 'I'd never pass up a chance to kiss you, Doctor,' he whispered.

Lestrade coughed from across the table, winking at Molly, who couldn't stop giggling. Sherlock sighed and leant back in his chair; unconsciously, he'd leant in to John, forgetting that there were other people in the room. He looked at Mycroft, who was smirking, sipping his scotch. 'I thought you'd only drop by shortly?'

'And miss your little moment under the mistletoe?' Mycroft sniggered. 'I've waited for over thirty years for you to finally engage in such a thing, I intend to make an end to that.'

Sherlock sighed. 'Fine.'

'Everyone finished?' John asked, feeling highly uncomfortable. He stood up and stacked all the plated, carrying them to the sink. 'You're doing the dishes tonight, Sherlock,' he teased with a grin.

'The hell I am! I already cleaned the flat!' Sherlock said indignantly.

'Yes, and I cooked dinner all day, Sherlock. Now, do you all want a glass of wine or something?'

* * *

It was half past one when the guests decided to go home. Harry hugged John, who was proud she'd refused a glass of wine, and she even shook Sherlock's hand warmly. Lestrade was a bit tipsy and hugged both of them – at the same time – and Mike, who was more than a bit tipsy, joined in. Mycroft nodded at Sherlock and John and Molly hugged them as well, a bit tentatively. Sherlock patted her awkwardly on the shoulder and was glad when she let go.

'We're forgetting one thing,' Lestrade said and he held up the tiny branch of mistletoe. He fastened in to the top of the doorframe and stepped back onto the landing, followed by the rest.

Sherlock sighed and took John's hand, pulling him in the doorway, underneath the mistletoe. 'Ready?' he murmured.

'As ready as I'll ever be,' John replied in a whisper. His heart beat fast in the anticipation of kissing Sherlock – in front of six people whom he saw almost daily. But all that vanished from his mind when he felt Sherlock's breathing against his lips. Sherlock's lips followed within seconds, his arms around his waist. Lost in the moment, John threw his arms around Sherlock's neck and allowed Sherlock to kiss him deeper. Sherlock pressed him closer to his body, parting his lips slightly.

Mycroft was the first to leave; he'd realised that John really had changed his brother for the better and because he was in fact a decent man, he left him and his lover to themselves. What the others did was not of his concern, but he awarded them their privacy.

Mrs Hudson retreated quickly afterwards, also feeling that they should have a little time on their own. The kiss also became rather heated and at her time of life it was better not to get too involved in such things.

Molly decided on leaving next, and Lestrade, Mike and Harry followed shortly, a content smile on their faces. However impossible it might have seemed before, now they were fully convinced that the detective and the doctor really loved each other.

Half an hour after the door had closed for the last time, Sherlock and John were still kissing, their lips were still locked, their arms around each other. They didn't even register the fact that they were alone when John pulled back to whisper, 'Let's take this upstairs.'

Sherlock chuckled. '_Your _bedroom?'

'It's colder there; heat's been off for a couple of months now. We might need some body heat to warm us up…'

Sherlock laughed in his low rumble and he grabbed John's hand. 'Then let's go.'

* * *

**That's the first little story of my fluffy collection :) Tell me what you think and stay tuned for the next few, they will be up here as soon as possible. But I've got to ask something; I have ideas for three more chapters after this one, but after that I'll have to think of more fluffy scenarios. Would you mind helping me with that? If there's anything you like reading about them, I'm sure I can work with it ;) Thanks for reading and please help me by reviewing! I love you all ^^**


	2. Chapter 2: New Year

**He there lovely readers :D So happy I got this chapter typed and ready in just a matter of days... I'm grateful for your patience. So, here is chapter two - New Year. It was to be expected after Christmas, right? First the mistletoe and now... Midnight. You get the warnings.  
Disclaimer: Yes, yes, I've gone over this a thousand times already. I am the proud owner of the plot of this fic, but not of the characters or places or anything to do with Sherlock Holmes. There.  
Now off you pop and read this story!**

* * *

**2. New Year**

Sherlock awoke late in the morning – unusual for him – feeling a hot breath in his neck. He smiled when he felt John's hand on his chest, snuggling close to him. Sherlock wished he could go back to sleep, but once his brain was up and running, chances of that were pretty slim. He did not want to disturb John's sleep or his embrace, so he closed his eyes and focused on John's naked body curving around his.

It was the 31st of December, a few days after Christmas dinner and New Year's day. After the dinner, John had promised Sherlock that they wouldn't do anything of sorts on New Year's Eve. Sherlock had been relieved to hear that, firstly because that one dinner had already been enough for one year, let alone for one week, and secondly because he had a pleasant surprise in store for John that evening. Sherlock's face glowed with pride when he thought about it; John would be very pleased.

* * *

'I love you,' was the first thing John said when he woke up, curled up around Sherlock, Sherlock's hand in his hair. He pressed a kiss to Sherlock's naked chest and snuggled even closer.

'Good morning to you, too,' Sherlock said, kissing the top of John's head.

John chuckled and murmured sleepily; 'A very good morning.'

Sherlock gazed at the ceiling. 'I thought last night was better. Though, in my list of most enjoyable mornings, this is one of the best.'

'One of the best?'

'Yes.'

'John smiled, satisfied. 'What are the others?'

Sherlock thought for a moment, searching through his mind palace for the "John" section. He stroked John's hair slowly and murmured; 'The first morning I woke up next to you on the sofa and you kissed me. And the morning after our first time... I'm still not sure whether I love that one best or this morning. And the morning you made me breakfast. Do you need me to go on?'

'No, I think you've covered it,' John said with a smile. He dragged his finger around Sherlock's chest. 'I'm going to have a shower. Don't try to follow me in there, I do have plans for today.'

'So do I,' Sherlock said. 'Now hurry up and shower.'

Without thinking, John removed the covers and sprang from the bed. A second too late he remembered that he was completely naked. He heard a snigger behind him and he turned around, trying to maintain his dignity. Sherlock's eyes had a sparkle in them that always made John's stomach do a back flip, and they scanned John's body appreciatively. 'Better go to the bathroom, Doctor Watson,' he said, his eyes wide. 'My plans really need to get done and you form... a huge distraction.'

John grinned and dropped back down on the bed on his knees. He bent over Sherlock and gave him a soft kiss on the mouth. He left for the bathroom, leaving Sherlock breathless on his bed.

* * *

'I'm sorry, Sherlock, I've got to work today. I'll be home around six, okay?' John said after breakfast. Someone at the surgery apparently called in sick so he had to fill in. 'We'll make up for everything tonight,' John whispered, putting his arms around his boyfriend. He kissed him briefly but passionately before shrugging on his coat and dashing off the stairs.

Sherlock grinned. He had actually arranged something with the rest of the staff of the surgery John currently worked at; they needed him today, so John was away from 221B and Sherlock could make preparations for their special night.

First, his outfit. He changed into his purple shirt – because he knew that John liked him in it – and a new, smooth black suit that fitted him like a second skin.

He decided to clean the entire apartment thoroughly; even better than he had done at Christmas. He stored all his experiments in Mrs Hudson's bathroom – with her consent, obviously. She'd been delighted when Sherlock told her he wanted to surprise John and was more than willing to give up her bathroom for a day or two.

Removing all of his experiments carefully (some were in delicate stages of completion) took over three hours already. Sherlock sighed and cleaned the rest of his stuff up – case filed, his dressing gown, other rubbish that was sprawled around the sitting room, kitchen and bedroom. That took another hour.

The next stage was hovering (removing the dust wasn't necessary – Mrs Hudson had already done that for him, thank God) and cleaning the kitchen. Another hour flew by; it was two o'clock, he was ahead of schedule. Four more hours until John came home. Sherlock decided to take a break of an hour before contacting Angelo; he had never attempted to cook before and now wasn't the time to try. Everything was arranged quickly; Sherlock requested that Angelo make his special version of the spaghetti John always enjoyed. Angelo was happy to do it because he had seen from the first time that they were a perfect couple and he enjoyed having them in his restaurant. He agreed to let Billy deliver their food before six and even to include a bouquet of red roses. 'It's more romantic,' he had said.

The food arrived at 5:30, right when Sherlock was finishing up on the final touches; lighting a fire in the hearth, making sure there was as little artificial light in the flat as possible, lighting candles on the kitchen table and – he still wasn't sure about this idea – in the bedroom. _At least I didn't leave a trail of rose petals, _Sherlock thought. Then he saw Angelo's red roses and he chuckled as he put them in a vase and placed it on the unused end of the table.

He stood back to survey his day's work and wondered what John would think. His heart seemed to go into overdrive when he imagined the worst possible scenario; John saying he hated it, being embarrassed by Sherlock, breaking up their relationship, moving out and marrying a beautiful woman instead. Sherlock flinched when he remembered Irene Adler. She had been sitting on her sofa, Sherlock's coat around her, implying to John that she liked detective stories – and detectives. Sherlock had seen an interest in John's eyes and he stumbled over the words that came out of his mouth in an attempt to get his attraction – no, attention, that is the word, he convinced himself then. But it was no use; from that moment on he was actively aware that John Watson meant more to him than just an ordinary friend. _That moment?_ Sherlock asked himself. _Didn't you know at the pool? Or even when you just met him?_

Sherlock was rudely interrupted from his contemplations when he heard the key in the lock downstairs. A surge of panic took over; John would probably be tired, hungry. He'd want to eat quickly and watch telly for a few hours, only staying up until midnight because it would be New year. Sherlock wished he could take all of it down, but it was too late – John stepped into the flat, looking around for Sherlock, who was still in the kitchen.

'Sherlock?'

'Kitchen,' Sherlock croaked in a raspy voice. He swallowed and faced John with a weak, apologetic smile.

John was about to ask him whether he was alright when he noticed the candles. And the firelight. And the unusually clean kitchen – and the purple shirt. He stepped closer, throwing his coat on the sofa. 'Oh, my God, Sherlock. Was this what you meant when you said you had "plans"?'

Sherlock nodded; he found it difficult to place John's reaction into the "negative" corner or the "positive" one. 'Do you like it?' he asked for the second time that week.

John nodded, unable to speak. He walked up to Sherlock and took him in his arms. He pressed his nose to Sherlock's chest and tries to control the tears that clouded his vision. Sherlock hugged him back tentatively.

'You are so sweet,' John whispered when he could speak again. 'Only you would do this. Only you would keep surprising me. God, I love you, Sherlock.'

'I…' Sherlock struggled with the words. 'I love you too, John.'

John looked up and their eyes locked. John smiled and asked stupidly; 'Do you mean that?'

'I've told you before, John. Right the first day we had that talk on the sofa. And a month later, when we had… sex.'

'Yes, but I've always had trouble comprehending it. Why would someone like you love someone like me? The words seem to have a deeper meaning. Mine do; I love you even more than three months ago, Sherlock, especially after seeing that you can actually clan this flat…' John chuckled. He saw the two plates on the table and blinked. 'You've been cooking?' he asked in disbelief.

It was Sherlock's time to chuckle. 'No, I convinced Angelo to send us some of that spaghetti you like so much. I can't afford to blow up the kitchen on New Year's Eve…'

'You're adorable,' John whispered before he pulled Sherlock into a kiss. John's hands crept up Sherlock's back and Sherlock whimpered, not expecting the kiss. His arms were around John's neck in an instant, keeping the short doctor with him. He gasped, needy for John, and arched his back when John pinched his buttocks.

'Shall we eat?' John asked, slithering out of Sherlock's arms. He sat down in his chair and Sherlock nodded, a flushed colour on his cheeks. He got the foot out of the oven – it would stay warm that way – and placed it on the table. John took a big portion, while Sherlock stuck to his child's portion, but he ate something and John couldn't ask for more.

The candle light put Sherlock's face in interesting shadows and John caught himself staring multiple times during dinner. He couldn't believe he was this lucky; Sherlock Holmes was his boyfriend, the most gorgeous man in the world – inside and out – loved him too, and he had organised a romantic dinner on New Year's Eve to prove it. Without thinking it through, he grabbed the detectives hands and jerked him forward, their lips meeting over the candlelight. The kiss was deep, slow and passionate. Sherlock loved those kisses best; they were romantic, they could hold so many feelings he could not explain in any language, they moved him most.

'I have another surprise,' Sherlock murmured, blushing heavily. He took John's hand and led him around the table to the door that would lead them to the bedroom. John stared at him curiously but asked no questions. They stepped into the room, which was also dimly lit – only by about twenty candles spread across the room. It cast a shining glow on the white sheets on the bed, which was neatly made. John was sure he could feel his heart melt as he looked around the room, back to Sherlock, who bit his lip nervously but would not let go of his hand.

'You amazing man,' John whispered. 'You adorable, remarkable, clever, perfect, amazing man...'

Sherlock beamed. It had not been a mistake after all; John loved it, his first instinct had been right.

'I can't say it enough, Sherlock, but God, I love you. I am so in love with you. I can't even...' John shook his head. 'I will organise our three month anniversary. First Christmas, now this... you're amazing, you're bloody amazing. God, I love you so much.'

Sherlock smiled and pulled John closer, letting his hands slide over his arms and his waist. He tipped his head and leaned forward, lips brushing John's jaw as he murmured; 'I love you too, John.' More didn't need to be said, for John could hear so much more than those four words, he saw much more in the detective's eyes, he felt more in his touch. John was suddenly overcome with emotions and he buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder. His body shook with every sob and Sherlock placed a gentle hand on the back of his head while John clenched his fists around the fabric of the shirt at Sherlock's back.

Sherlock tried to comfort John, but he didn't know how. He wondered why John had broken down so suddenly and hoped it wasn't because of something he had done. Perhaps he had just had a long day at work, and he was tired, and while he appreciated what Sherlock had done for him – he was happy, right? Sherlock couldn't remember – it was still too much. Sherlock tried very hard not to burst into tears as well. It was his childhood all over again; he tried too hard. He tried too hard and nobody liked his hard work. They said he didn't understand, and there was truth in that; he _didn't _understand why John was crying. He had never understood feelings, or emotions and it was because people told him that over and over he'd given up on trying. But John had changed so much; for him, Sherlock was willing to do everything, anything. He wanted to understand, for John's sake, so he could express his feelings correctly and interpret John's correctly. Now, he wasn't sure about either of them.

'I'm sorry, John, I am really not good at this,' Sherlock murmured, his voice thick in his throat. Lost in his own desperate feelings, he failed to choke back a sob, and a single tear managed to escape, rolling slowly down his pale cheek. He closed his eyes, unwilling to face John. More tears followed and when he felt a familiar hand on his cheek, Sherlock began to cry in earnest, feeling that warm hand wipe away his tears. Without knowing how he got there, he was half-sitting, half-lying on the bed, his face pressed to John's warm jumper.

It broke John's heart to see his boyfriend, his hero, always so distant, perfectly able to hide his emotions, like this; so vulnerable, all his barriers brought down. Deep down John knew that he was the only person to have seen him that way (or at least the only person he allowed to) but John's heart was only filled with sadness when he looked at this lonely child, trying to picture what his life had been like. Sherlock clung to him as if his life depended on it and he sobbed into John's chest. John waited patiently until Sherlock's body stopped shaking and his heartbreaking sobs stopped, gently running a hand through his dark curls, rubbing his back in a slow, comforting pace.

'I'm so sorry, John,' Sherlock sniffed shakily, avoiding John's eyes.

'You have nothing to be sorry about, my love. You've been hurt and this is unfamiliar to you. You just need to get it all out. I won't leave.' John continued to stroke Sherlock's hair.

'Everybody does, Sooner or later, you'll realise that I am not worth it and you'll pack your things and leave.' Sherlock spoke in a soft voice that had so much hurt in it, it made John's heart ache.

'Is this what this is about? Because I can assure you that I won't go anywhere. I think there is more, and you know it. Why don't we just talk for a while?'  
Sherlock bit his lip in frustration. Why did he have to break down emotionally at this moment? He had planned an entire evening for him and John and it ended up with him shaking violently, crying like a five year-old in John's arms because his feelings finally got the better of him after twenty-five years. It was not how he wanted to spend the night, but perhaps he could make it as pleasant as possible.

'That would be nice. Especially if you would hold me,' he said in a small voice. He winced; he sounded pathetic. He wished he could be a stronger person and set this all aside, but John's soothing whispers were comfortable and encouraging, and they made him feel loved, cared for and he couldn't stop the tears which were rolling down his cheeks in a rapid pace.

'Of course, love,' John whispered. He kicked off his shoes, removed Sherlock's as well, and gently moved both of them to the centre of the bed, where he lay down on the pillows, keeping Sherlock's head on his chest and his arms around him. He felt Sherlock relax a little when he continued stroking his hear and he asked quietly; 'What's brought this on?'

Sherlock didn't reply immediately; he was trying to find the words to explain his emotions, but his normally so eloquent mind seemed to have deserted him.

John felt Sherlock's jaw move against his chest as he opened and closed his mouth in indecision. He decided to help him a little bit by asking direct questions – he had had enough session with his therapist Ella to understand such an approach.

'When you showed me this room, I told you that I loved you. I do, I really do. I became a bit emotional and suddenly, I heard you sob. Was it because of me?'

Sherlock nodded and shook his head, still looking for words.

'My reaction was the reason for this, right?'

Sherlock nodded. 'It was a part of it,' he murmured.

'What did I do that made you cry?'

'You cried.'

'I cried because I was happy; you obviously aren't happy right now, Sherlock. Why did you cry?'

'Because I didn't know whether you were happy or sad,' Sherlock finally whispered, his voice smaller than ever.

'But why should you cry about that? You know you can always ask me when you aren't sure.'

'I know, I-I just... I thought about... When I was a child.'  
Ah – so John had been right; Sherlock's problems went deeper than just a simple misunderstanding. John's heart filled with sadness when he thought about Sherlock's childhood. He had been hurt, bullied, called named, even beaten up a few times. He still had the scars to prove it; emotional and physical.

'Tell me about it, love,' John whispered, pressing his lips against his boyfriend's dark curls.

'I haven't always been like this – hiding my emotions, saying I'm a sociopath. There was a time, years ago, when I was close to normal. A Holmes can never be normal... I even tried to make people like me, but no one did, except for my mother. Mummy liked me, and she may even have loved me, but she was too proud of me not to brag about her little Sherlock to the other mothers. They told their children and while I tried to make friends, they ignored me or yelled at me, calling me names.'

'What were those names, dear?' John's eyes stung with tears. How could anyone have treated his Sherlock like that? An image of a little Sherlock formed in his head, alone in the middle of a circle formed of mean children, shouting at him, pushing him. John kissed Sherlock's head and called him pulled him closer, calling him "dear" and "love" so he knew he was loved.

'"Suck-up", "nerd", "creep"...' Sherlock shut his eyes, memories threatening to overtake him. 'It got worse in secondary school. I was apprehensive, I expected them to hate me as well, They did not get a chance to get close to me – I would not let them – and they started to call me names as well. "Creep" returned, as did most of the old ones... but they also called me "fag" and "queer", insisting that I was gay, or because I was... odd, or because I never had girlfriends. I don't know... I had no interest in boys at all, or in girls, for that matter. I still don't. There's just you.' Sherlock took a deep breath and went on. 'But by then. I had successfully divorced myself from social contacts and that part in my brain stayed limited. That is why I didn't know how to place your reaction, John. That is why I... cried.'

'Have you ever seen them again?' John asked, choking back the lump in his throat.

Sherlock shook his head. His body tensed and John rubbed a gentle hand over his back. 'There is a reunion in two weeks – a few days before our three-month anniversary. I don't intend to go, I am not interested in their petty lives. They didn't know how much they hurt me, they can't have known. The full impact of it only just strikes me now, when you're with me, John.'

John hugged Sherlock tighter, pressing a kiss to his temple. 'You didn't deserve this,' he whispered. 'All you did was protecting yourself from more emotional damage. It's natural, and I'm here now, and I'm going to help you. I love you.'

'Love you too,' Sherlock murmured.

'We should go to that reunion,' John whispered. Sherlock stiffened immediately and he started breathing faster. 'I don't want to.' His voice was barely a whisper.

'I only want to speak with the people who hurt you most. You don't have to be there, but I want to talk to them, let them know that what they did has scarred someone for life and that they deserve to feel the exact same way you did all those years ago. I will make them feel that way. They won't get away with this that easily.'

Sherlock heard the anger, love and passion in his voice and looked up into John's eyes, his own filled with worry and... John blinked (did he see it right?) arousal. He opened his mouth slowly and said quietly, voice full with need;

'Would you do that?'

'For you, I'd do anything. I'm going to need names. Who were they?'

'Not all of them did something. Some were just too scared to end up like me and followed the leaders, so to speak. Some even tried to be nice to me, but I pushed them away...'

'Who were the leaders?' John asked softly, though still with that flaming passion.

Sherlock whispered softly, as if he were afraid the walls had ears. 'Michael Redford, Christian Benton, Luke Hill, Mary Shepherd and Lindsey McDonald.'

'They are going to regret ever laying eyes on you,' John said, holding Sherlock possessively.

'John?'

'Hm?'

'You are sexy when you go into soldier-mode.'

John grinned. It wasn't the first time that Sherlock had said anything of the sort, but it pleased him nevertheless. 'Let's make this night worth the tears, hmm?' he whispered. John laughed softly and he heard Sherlock laugh in response, which was everything he wanted; for Sherlock to laugh. He had suffered too much in his life and now, John decided, was the time to make him smile.

'I still can't believe what you did for me this evening, Sherlock.' He looked around the candlelit bedroom and suddenly he noticed something else; the smell. John could not be sure, because the smell was usually something burnt, but now everything was clean – by John's lack of words – and it was a fresh scent, something forest-like that reminded him of Sherlock. 'Sherlock, it even smells wonderful in here!'

'So you've noticed?' Sherlock asked, obviously delighted. 'Good, I was afraid that I had been too subtle.'

'Wonderful man,' John said before he tilted Sherlock's head from his chest and brushed their lips together in a soft, sweet kiss. 'My wonderful man.'

Sherlock made a little contented noise that John could only compare to the purr of a cat. Sherlock was always needy after an emotional breakdown (not that he had many) and his response to John's kiss showed that.

Most people always thought that Sherlock was the "dominant" one in their relationship, because of his possessiveness towards John around other people, but in reality, he did not know much about emotions or relationships; everything he knew had been taught by John. And he secretly loved being in another's hands; John's hands. John was so careful around him, so sweet, Sherlock's heart seemed to implode when he thought about it.

'I love you,' he whispered against John's lips. 'How is this even possible?' he wondered aloud. 'How is my heart – or my mind – able to contain the love I have for you? Surely it will burst soon enough.'

'I wonder the same sometimes. But then I realise that it only strengthens it, and that my love for you will always keep growing.'

Sherlock made that happy noise again and he nuzzled in John's neck. He pressed little kisses everywhere and he kept purring, liking how John reacted to the deep-throated sound. Soon it turned into a deeper growl and he was biting at John's neck, rolling his skin between his teeth. He flicked his tongue over the bite marks he had made and he continued with the kisses, taking his time to trace John's collar bone with his mouth.

'It's three minutes to midnight,' John whispered when he shot a glance at the clock.

'I've read it's a tradition for couples to kiss when it's New Year?' Sherlock said with a grin.

'Yes,' John said, running his hand through Sherlock's dark hair.

'Happy New Year,' Sherlock breathed and his gaze drifted down to John's mouth.

'Happy New Year,' John whispered back, and just as the clock hit twelve o'clock, their lips met again, and neither of them noticed the light of the fireworks that flashed through Sherlock's bedroom windows.

* * *

**That was chapter two, dear readers... What did you think? Please review and give me your thoughts, I'd be delighted. Furthermore, as stated in my last A/N I have asked for a few suggestions as to further chapters in this little collection. The nicest things have been suggested, but I want this fic to last so I'm going to need more! Help me out here and you have my thanks :D Thanks, everybody, you're amazing for reading this ^^**


	3. Chapter 3: The Reunion

**And there we have the long awaited chapter three (at least I hope it was) "the Reunion". In this part, John goes all BAMF-y. I hope you like it, I worked hard on it!**

**Disclaimer; Don't own. Nor does Otter. If we did though, this would turn into an actual episode. Or an actual book. :)**

**Warnings; Some swearing, a well placed punch and some kissing in a cupboard. The usual with these boys ;)**

* * *

'Right, I think I'll just get a cab and go to that reunion. Don't know how I'll get in, but I'm sure I'll think of something...' John shrugged on his jacket and took a few steps towards Sherlock, who'd looked up from his experiment involving women's perfume and the venom of a rare South-American snake. 'You're not going to dress up?' he asked with a smile, though John could sense an underlying tension.

'For this?' John asked. 'God, no. I'm only going to shout abuse at some of your former classmates. Perhaps knock a few of them out,' he added ponderingly.

'Damn,' Sherlock muttered. 'I was rather hoping to see you in a suit today.'

John smiled. 'I think that can still be arranged,' he said as he drew Sherlock in his arms. 'Later.'

Sherlock grinned and let himself be kissed by John. He let his hands roam around John's body, but soon – too soon – John whispered in his ear; 'I've got to go, Sherlock.' John stepped backwards, but Sherlock caught him by the wrist.

'I think I will go with you,' he said softly.

'Really?' John blinked.

Sherlock nodded. 'Well – I won't actually go _in _there,' he said with a blush. 'Obviously... I suppose I can hide in the lavatories, or something. But I don't want to be so far away from you; it is my old school, after all.'

No matter the hiding part, John still thought it was a huge step for Sherlock to go back to the place when he had been bullied, leaving permanent scars in his mind and on his body.

'Okay,' John said quietly, giving his boyfriend a small kiss. When he thought about those people hurting him, anger raged up in him again. He only hoped that they had gained some sense in the last twenty years. He grabbed Sherlock's hand and they left 221B together in search for a cab.

They found one pretty quickly (how did Sherlock _do _it?) and they settled themselves in the back, huddled together as close as possible. John held Sherlock's hand and drew comforting circles on the pale skin with his thumb. Sherlock smiled gratefully and he leaned on John's shoulder, drawing strength from his touch.

Eventually the cab stopped in front of an old building that looked so lonely in the twilight, John got depressed instantly; the place looked like a prison.

'I know,' Sherlock said softly. He looked at the depressing building with an expression of dread and his hand searched for John's reassuring one. 'We should go inside,' he murmured, his voice thick with memories of his years as a teenager. He felt a comforting squeeze of John's hand and he looked sideways at the doctor.

'Ready?' John asked.

'Sherlock nodded; there was nothing to be done now, and John was with him; what could go wrong?

* * *

'Names and invites?'

'Sherlock Holmes,' Sherlock said, handing over his invite. 'This is my partner, John Watson.'

John blushed when he was introduced as Sherlock's partner, but he wasn't embarrassed; he felt proud to be Sherlock's boyfriend.

The girl at the reception desk blinked a few times but crossed out his name from the list and the "guest" column. John knew that Sherlock was checking out the names of his bullies and he heard him sigh in frustration when they were all crossed out.

'Now, darling,' Sherlock said, a hint of a sparkle in his eyes. 'You go inside, and I'll go to the loo and join you in a sec.' He winked and gave John a small kiss before he turned and strode through the grey hallway, taking a left at the junction.

John sighed and went through the open doors to the gymnasium. It was just as stern, grey and dull as the rest of the school, and the attempt to make it look colourful and bright was just pathetic. A few balloons had been attached to the walls and there was a table with snacks and drinks, dressed in a pink tablecloth. The greyness was somewhat toned down by the crowd; the women wore colourful dresses or blouses, and the men had, despite their black or grey suits, colourful shirts or ties. John figured they'd remembered the greyness of their school and dressed brightly because of it.

He walked up to the table to get himself some coffee – no alcohol tonight, he wanted to keep his head as clear as possible. Soon he heard a voice behind him.

'Excuse me?'

John turned and found a small woman in jeans and a flowery top looking at him.

'Can I help you?' he asked.

She smiled. 'Just that I haven't seen you before.' She raised the end of the sentence and tilted her head questioningly.

'Oh,' John said with a smile. 'I'm a guest.'

'Ah,' she said, smiling back. 'Who's your girlfriend? Or wife? Excuse my curiosity...'

John grinned. 'My _boyfriend _is Sherlock Holmes. He's not here yet, he's in the restroom at the moment. John Watson,' he said, holding out his free hand.

'Mary Shepherd,' she introduced herself, a little bit uncomfortable at hearing Sherlock's name. 'I'm surprised he is here,' she said apologetically. 'I don't know whether he's told you, but he's had a rough time here...'

'Yes, and you were part of causing it,' John said calmly, trying to hold back his anger. Mary grew even more uncomfortable; she bit her lip and looked down. 'It's not something I'm proud of. I really –'

'Well, you should have thought of that a bit sooner,' John said, a threatening undertone in his calm voice. 'He's scared to death; that's why he's hiding in the loo right now. He's one of the cleverest people I know, but when he thinks about his past, he can't think rationally anymore. A few nights ago, I had to hold him all night because he would not stop crying.'

Mary's expression was one of utter amazement. Her eyes went wide and she shook her head. 'I didn't know it affected him so much, I've always felt guilty since the day I broke contact with them,' she said, pointing to three men and a woman. 'Horrible people. Still,' she said. 'Especially the two biggest guys. Christian and Lindsey might be alright, but Redford and Hill are still the biggest oafs I've ever met. Go and talk to them as well. That's why you're here, right?' She looked at John with her hazel eyes and John felt his anger towards her fade away; she really felt guilty.

'I will,' he said. 'But what exactly did you do to Sherlock? He told me you called him names and beat him occasionally...'

'He said that?' Mary's eyes widened again. 'That isn't even half of it. We... we humiliated him, told the teachers false stories against him, waited for him at the end of the driveway... God, I feel so bad.'

John frowned; why had Sherlock not been completely honest with him? He set the matter aside in his head. He'd ask him about it later.

'Thanks,' he said and he turned.

'John?'

'Hmm?'

'I understand if he doesn't want to see me, but please tell him I'm sorry.' Mary looked broken. John gave it a moment of thought and nodded. He saw two of the four people he'd seen earlier stand at the other side of the room. He walked up to them, getting ready for his next fit of rage.

* * *

Sherlock sat on the lid of the toilet, staring at the filthy door opposite him. All sorts of insults were scribbled on there in different kinds of pen and marker. Sherlock shuddered to think what the girls' lavatory must look like.

His mind drifted back into the past, and he remembered all the things that had been scribbled on this very door twenty years ago.

_Sherlock Holmes is a freak!_

_Yeah dude, totally agree!_

_Not to mention a fag_

_Haha yeah!_

Sherlock shut his eyes; the memories hurt too much. Unable to direct his thoughts away from his past, he occupied his mind with deducing the boys who had written on the door by their handwriting.

_Confident. Popular._

_Dyslectic._

_Anxious. Lying._

_Bullied._

Bullied? Sherlock groaned; would his past ever let him go? He'd never meant to break down in front of John like that, though he didn't mind the amazing sex after it –

The opening of a door and voices startled Sherlock out of his – now pleasant – thoughts. He quickly pulled up his legs and held his breath as he recognised the voices; those of Luke Hill and Mike Redford.

'Man, that was funny!' Luke Hill sniggered. 'We really had some good times here.'

'I wish he'd shown up, though. Find out whether he's finally got himself a boyfriend...'

Sherlock turned cold as he realised they were talking about him.

'Oh, but he _is _here!' Hill said. 'I saw him crossed out on the list. And he wasn't in the hall. That must mean...'

Sherlock held his breath; he could almost feel their eyes stare at him through the door. He closed his eyes; saying nothing would be the wisest thing to do, but that would make him a coward. And Sherlock Holmes was _not _a coward.

Fingers trembling, he opened the lock of the cubicle and stepped forward, facing the two men who had bullied him the most all those years ago.

'Luke and Michael,' he said, his face an ice cold mask, like it always was when he wanted to hide how he really felt.

'Sherly! How are you, mate!' Redford sneered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and folded his arms across his chest. 'I've never been better. I suppose that can be linked to your absence in my life.'

Redford and Hill looked at him in confusion, apparently unsure whether that was an insult or not.

'Oh, God,' Sherlock snorted. 'You make Anderson look smart.'

This they did recognise as an insult and Redford stepped forward angrily. 'And you think you are, right? Eh? You fuckin' fag!'

Sherlock ignored the indult with difficulty, but set up an amused smile. 'Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. Let's see... married two... no, three times. Probably because you kept cheating on your wife. Have you told her about your latest affair yet? Or your son?'

Redford became as red as a tomato and he opened his mouth to scream, but Sherlock wasn't finished.

'The pills aren't helping, eh? For your anger problems? Perhaps your therapist should try some different ones. Hmm... No, they don't work very well with your epilepsy medicines.'

'Stop it, you –'

'Found a new job yet? Must be hard, in this economy. Especially with a criminal record. Is that why you've gambled away your house?'

'That's it!' Redford roared. He took a few angry steps towards the detective and Sherlock backed off, fear bubbling in his chest. Unfortunately, at times like this, Sherlock's mouth opens and it won't close again.

'Easy, Mike, easy! Anger problems, remember? Your therapist won't be –'

Redford had seized him by the throat and pressed him against the wall. Sherlock managed to look bored and unimpressed, though his fear was suffocating; this was why he hadn't wanted to go with John in the first place.

John – where was he? He was supposed to protect him –

'Mate!' Hill yelled. 'You're gonna kill 'im!'

'So what?' Redford bellowed. 'I've had enough of this bloody bastard!' His grip on Sherlock's throat tightened and he gasped for air. He couldn't get enough oxygen and his vision was getting blurry, his brain fuzzy. Well, this was not how he'd wanted to spend the night.

* * *

'So, you're Sherlock's partner?' Christian asked. 'We've always... wondered whether he was gay.'

'Hmm... I don't know whether you can call him gay. He's always told me it was just me; he's never felt like this for anyone...'

'Perhaps he's "John-sexual"?' Lindsey laughed. 'It happens, people fall in love with only one person in their entire lives.' She sighed dramatically. 'How romantic. And to think we thought he had no feelings...' She shook her head. 'Poor bugger. I really wish I hadn't done it. I feel so bad.'

'Hmm,' Christian agreed. 'But then, we thought he didn't mind.'

'Because you didn't understand him!' John exclaimed.

'And you do?'

'It took me a while. But I do; it's not so hard, he's really just a twelve year-old, you know.' He shook his head fondly. 'I do love him,' he added softly.

Lindsey smiled. 'I'm glad he's found someone who cares about him when we were... so horrible. No one deserves this.'

'Perhaps Luke Hill and Michael Redford,' John said, remembering the last of the bullies. He looked around but Christian's voice got his attention.

'They went to the loo a few minutes ago.'

John paled. Without saying goodbye to Christian and Lindsey, he turned around and ran for the door. He followed the same path as he had seen Sherlock take half an hour previously. He heard yells coming from the loo and his heart beat fast in his anger. If they were hurting his Sherlock... He opened the door and almost exploded in rage when he saw Redford's hand on Sherlock's throat.

'Anything wrong?' he asked. The two men looked to their left in surprise; Redford dropped his hand. Sherlock contained a relieved smile, but his eyes told John enough.

'And who are you?' Redford sneered.

'John Watson. And that's my boyfriend you were just choking to death.'

'Boyfriend? Ah, how sweet!' Hill mocked. John frowned and moved in front of Sherlock, brushing his hand briefly. 'Do you have any idea what you've put him through?'

'Why should we care?' Redford said.

'Because he's a human being!' John bellowed. 'He's like you and me! A man with goddamn feelings! You've closed to ruined him! You're lucky that isn't the case, since he's the strongest person I know.' He stepped closed to Redford, who back off as he saw the angry, dangerous sparkle in the ex-army doctor's eyes.

'I was a soldier in Afghanistan. I've killed people. I'm not afraid to do it again. If you ever lay a hand on him again, I will make sure that your death will be an excruciatingly long and painful one. Oh, have I mentioned that I am a doctor? I know exactly where to stick a knife that won't kill you immediately, but will let you bleed in agony for hours. I know what nerves to hit to make your body paralyse from neck to toe.'

Hill backed off in terror, but Redford stayed where he was.

'You're bluffing!' he screamed and he lunged forward in anger, but John's army-reflexes were quick and before the man could seize him, he had already clenched a fist, drawn his arm back, and landed his fist on the man's nose. He felt the satisfying crack of braking bone and he saw the red spurt of blood shoot from his nose as he stumbled backwards into the arms of his friend.

'Still think I'm bluffing?' John asked sweetly as he grabbed Sherlock's hand. 'Never mess with Sherlock – or me – again, or I'll hurt you much worse. Understood?'

The man nodded, covering his bleeding nose with his hand. The blood seeped through his fingers and John permitted himself one last satisfying look before he took Sherlock out of the lavatory and into the hallway. They walked a few feet before Sherlock suddenly opened a door to a cleaning cupboard and in one smooth motion pushed John in. He closed the door as quickly as he had opened it and before John could ask why they were in a pitch black supply cupboard, he felt Sherlock's hands on his waist, pinning him to the wall. Sherlock's lips searched hungrily for his and he was already tugging at the hem of John's shirt.

'Sherlock,' John laughed. 'What is this?'

'You know damn well what this is,' Sherlock breathed, his mouth now claiming John's neck. 'This is me, wanting you – now.'

John suppressed a whimper when he felt Sherlock's tongue on his skin, but he managed to say, 'But why?'

'Because,' Sherlock grunted and he kissed John's jaw, 'I think... you're... goddamn _sexy_... when you punch someone... Could barely keep myself from jumping on top of you right on the spot...' His hands slipped underneath John's shirt and he traced his spine with one long finger. John arched up against him, breathing heavily.

'Ah,' he breathed, 'But, Sherlock... I'd rather... do this... Ah!... at home... I promised to wear that suit, right?'

This got Sherlock's attention. He pulled back and tilted his head, comparing the two possibilities. 'Let's go home,' he said eventually, taking John's hand in his.

'Hang on, Sherlock. Mary, Lindsey and Christian wanted to say sorry. Can you please go inside? Just for a bit?'

Sherlock sighed. 'Fine.'

And so they walked back to the hall again, Sherlock practically running in impatience. It took them a while to find the three people huddled together in a corner. Sherlock grimaced in disgust but John smiled at them.

'John! Sherlock! We're so sorry –' Mary began, but Sherlock cut her off. 'Be quick, please, John's going to shag me tonight and I really want to get going.'

'SHERLOCK!' John bellowed, cheeks scarlet. Mary looked amused, but she ignored it. 'I just want to apologise for everything I've done to you.'

'Me too,' Lindsey said, smiling broadly and both of them.

'And me,' Christian added, a smirk on his face. 'I hope I'll get laid tonight as well, though I'm afraid chances of that are pretty slim.'

John smiled awkwardly.

'Yeah, thanks,' Sherlock said distractedly. He turned to John, impatience and lust still in his eyes. 'John, if we don't go soon, I might not be able to contain myself and we'll have to go back to that broom cupboard again.'

'Okay, we are definitely going, then.' John's cheeks were now so red he was afraid it might mess up his bloodstream. He ignored the looks he got from Mary, Lindsey and Christian and grabbed Sherlock's hand again. Sherlock hurried away, dragging him along. John waved briefly before he turned around, following his boyfriend outside.

* * *

When they entered 221B, Sherlock didn't even bother to take off his coat – in his excitement, he grabbed John's wrist and pulled him along straight to the bedroom.

'Sherlock,' John chuckled. 'Seriously, is this all just because I punched someone in the face earlier? Violence turns you on? Hmm, I should remember that so I can prepare myself if we're ever going to watch an action film together...'

'John, you idiot,' Sherlock scolded with a smile. 'It is because you punched him. But not really because of the violence, but... Because of _you_. I love you. And those people have really hurt me, and... you're the first to be willing to defend me. You would do that, for me, and you looked so beautiful doing it. Not to mention that you breaking somebody's nose is very... very sexy...' Sherlock breathed, pulling John closer by his wrist.

'You know why I did it, Sherlock. You would have done the same for me, because of what you've just told me; you love me.'

'Sometimes it's just hard to believe that you love me back.' The words came out in a quiet whisper and Sherlock bit his lip shyly, blushing and looking away. 'Why _do _you, anyway? I'm... I'm... I'm heartless! They were right, I don't understand feelings, I don't have them! _I don't have them!_' he exploded suddenly, hands shooting up to his hair. 'There's nothing – I-I... I don't feel anything!'

_Freak!_

_Robot!_

_Psycho!_

'Sherlock, no –' John grabbed Sherlock's wrists firmly and yanked them down. Sherlock was staring blindly ahead, not seeing, starting to hyperventilate. John helped him out of his coat and laid him on the bed. He lay on top of his boyfriend and he kissed him softly. Sherlock's tense body softened a little bit below him and John held his face in his hand, forcing him to look at him.

'What are you feeling now, Sherlock? What are you feeling? And don't say "nothing", because we both know that isn't true.'

Sherlock's gaze focused after a while and John saw tears in the corners of his eyes.

'You're crying; you must be feeling something. You just told me you loved me. You're going to need feelings for that, Sherlock.'

'I... I feel... anger,' Sherlock muttered. 'And sadness. Helplessness. Confusion. I feel hurt and misunderstood, unwanted...'

John closed his eyes and leaned forward again, kissing Sherlock lovingly and passionately before looking at him again. 'And now?' he whispered. 'I feel love, hope, happiness when I kiss you. What about you...?'

Sherlock took a deep breath and frowned worriedly, still feeling a numbness in his mind. There were emotions there, yes, raw emotions, uncontrolled ones, all bad. But then John put his lips to his again and everything became clear to him.

'I feel wanted,' Sherlock whispered hoarsely. 'I feel understood, happy, relieved. I feel cared for. I feel loved and I feel love for you. Oh, John, I love you so much. And I feel grateful.'

'You _are _wanted,' John muttered. 'And understood, loved, cared for. I love you too. You are everything to me, and they hurt you. They called you all those names, and now you've started to believe in them. They couldn't be more wrong.'

Sherlock smiled brightly, traces of tears still on his cheeks. John pressed a series of kisses down the wet streaks, tasting the saltiness of Sherlock's tears.

'I don't think my heart is capable of containing all these feelings I have for you, John. It _must _explode soon. You said it will keep growing, but...'

John placed his hand flat on Sherlock's chest, after unbuttoning a few buttons, and he felt Sherlock's heartbeat.

'I think this is perfectly all right,' he declared. He pressed a few kisses on the place where Sherlock's heart was and he worked his way up, slowly.

'Is that shag still on?' Sherlock asked breathlessly.

John grinned. 'If you want. Should I wear the suit?'

Sherlock almost moaned the next few words, as John was now tracing his tongue down his collar bone.

'God, yes.'

* * *

**And there we have it, The Reunion. I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter and reviews are very much appreciated :) They keep me writing, so feel free ^^ Oh, and I'd love some more ideas on future chapters, so if you really want to read about the boys doing something fluffy or sweet or just Johnlock-y, tell me and I'll see what I can do :D**

**And there is one more thing to tell you. Chapter four, The Anniversary, is coming up next but I haven't written much of it yet, and since I'm not on the computer 24/7 (close, but not entirely) I bought a notebook to write stuff in. So chapter four has not been finished yet, and not typed yet, but I'll work as hard on it as I can with a few more fics going on and I hope it's up here soon! Thank you all for reading, wonderful people! 3**


	4. Chapter 4: The Anniversary

**Okay, for the first time a little warning. Spoilers for Reichenbach! (Also for more of the episodes, but Reichenbach is the worst.) I originally hadn't thought about this or the prequel "Undisclosed Desires" to be set Post-Reichenbach, but it fitted and I wouldn't let it go.**  
**Enjoy!**

* * *

**4. The Anniversary**

A few mornings later, John woke up before Sherlock, something that didn't happen that often. Sherlock was fast asleep, his arms possessively around John, locking him in a tight embrace. John tried to wriggle his way out to make breakfast, but Sherlock mumbled in protest in his sleep and pressed John even tighter against him, nuzzling in his neck and murmuring contentedly, still sleeping.

'Mine.'

John grinned, and somewhere he knew that he looked stupid, staring at the ceiling with such a stupid, dream gaze, but he just couldn't bring himself to care. _Mine_. The word still echoed through his head and gave John an immensely happy feeling. He glanced down at Sherlock's face, still in his neck, and watched him murmur quietly. Sherlock talked in his sleep, probably because he was so restless, John thought. But he seemed peaceful and John knew it was because Sherlock was holding him. His grin broadened as he realised this and when Sherlock mumbled; 'John's mine. Loves me. Love him...' He sighed deeply and muttered; 'My John...'

'My Sherlock,' John responded. Sherlock didn't wake up; instead he smiled and buried his nose in John's neck.

'You do know that I love you,' John mused. It was a question, nor a statement. He was just talking to Sherlock, nothing more. 'And I'll make this day very special,' he whispered. 'Like you want it to be, how it should be.'

* * *

It was fifteen minutes later that Sherlock did wake up. He sighed happily and snuggled closer, muttering; 'Happy anniversary.'

It was only three months since Sherlock had passed out on the sofa and admitted to his feelings for John.

John smiled and held Sherlock a little tighter. He pressed a kiss to his curls and he felt Sherlock's toes slowly going up and down his calf. Tingles spread through his legs at the feathery touch and he clicked his tongue in disapproval. 'Sherlock...' he said slowly. You know perfectly well what the consequences of this are.'

Sherlock looked up at John and blinked. 'Of course I do,' he said innocently. 'Why do you think I do it?'

John chuckled and lowered his head so he could kiss his boyfriend. Sherlock grinned against his mouth, moving from lying against John to half on top of him. John moaned approvingly and his hand went from the dark curls to his neck to his shoulder, and from there to his back and to his buttocks. Sherlock arched into the touch and moved his left leg over John so he was now completely on top of him, clenching his legs tightly between his thighs. The kiss deepened and Sherlock crawled over John like a cat, his shoulders sticking out as his back arched against John's body below him. His breathing became heavier, and so did his need for John. He moaned quietly when John stroked his bare thighs, teasingly tickling upwards along the inner side. Sherlock whimpered against John's mouth before opening his own again, searching for John's tongue with his. John's hand was back on his buttocks again, playing with the waistband of his underwear. Then, suddenly, John sat up and pushed Sherlock on his back, claiming his neck. Sherlock, caught off guard by the sudden movement, gasped and groaned loudly, gripping John's back as if his life depended on it.

'Oh!' he breathed, digging his nails in the skin of John's shoulders. '_John..._ Oh!' He tried to turn his head to face John, but the doctor kept on kissing the detective's neck, licking and biting the sensitive skin.

'Happy anniversary,' John whispered, his lips at Sherlock's shoulder. He gave Sherlock a small kiss on the (kiss-swollen) lips and was beside the bed in an instant. He got dressed and helped Sherlock off the bed so he could do the same. 'I have a little surprise for you today.'

'Oh? And what might that be?' Sherlock asked, a mischievous smile around his beautiful lips.

'Well, it wouldn't be a surprise anymore if I'd tell you, now would it?'

'I have to admit that you're right in that. I just don't really like surprises,' Sherlock mused. 'Bad ones,' he added when he saw John's face. Having just closed the last button on his shirt, he took John in his arms, and leaned in to whisper in his ear. 'I do like good surprises, and I have no doubt that you'll be able to get me one.'

'Oh, I will,' John whispered back. 'But first; breakfast.'

Sherlock groaned, and the sound almost had John kissing him again, but he managed to stay away from Sherlock's divine lips – and throat. He smiled at his lover and put a hand on his cheek. 'Do I have to?' Sherlock pouted.

'I'll make you anything you want,' John said. 'Anything.'

Sherlock opened his mouth with a grin, but before he could say anything, he felt a finger on his lips and a whisper close to his ear. 'Food, Sherlock. Just food.'

Sherlock frowned and pouted his lower lip again. Then his face brightened again as an idea occurred to him. Taking his turn to whisper, he leaned forward and briefly brushed his tongue across John's neck, a feathery touch. 'That jam you love so much? I believe it would look – and _taste_ – delicious on your skin.' He breathed heavily in John's ear and noticed John's quickening pulse, dilating pupils, ragged breathing and growing excitement. His hand drifted down from John's back to his buttocks, but before he got the chance to grab a handful of it, John caught him by the wrist, pupils still ablaze with lust, though he had gained control over his body once more. 'No,' he whispered, his voice so low, so confident, it was as if it wasn't doctor Watson standing opposite Sherlock, it was Captain Watson, and he wouldn't take "no" for an answer. 'We're going to have a _normal _breakfast now. But don't worry; I'll take care of that little problem later,' he ordered as if he were back in the army, though still with a breathy undertone to his voice. He brushed his hand under the waistband of Sherlock's trousers when he muttered "little problem", and Sherlock let out a shivery breath.

'Will there be jam?' he asked hoarsely.

'And hot chocolate,' John promised. 'Perhaps some whipped cream?'

Sherlock laughed quietly and kissed his doctor, his Captain, his John. Then he sat down next to him and they ate their toast together.

* * *

'Sherlock, I'm going out for a bit,' John said, an apologetic smile on his face. It soon turned into a mischievous one as he continued his announcement. 'That is to say, if you'd really like some of that whipped cream... Any other suggestions?'

'Some chocolate can never hurt. Or cherry syrup.' Sherlock licked his lips and scanned John's body from head to toe. 'Be quick,' he told him.

John smiled and gave his boyfriend one last kiss before he darted out the door. Sherlock watched him go and made sure that he was really gone before he pulled out the box from one of the kitchen cupboards. He knew John would never get in there, as there was usually some random slice of body part, or a dangerous kind of acid. It made for the perfect hiding place.

Sherlock opened the lid and there, placed in purple velvet cushions, lay a handgun – a Colt M1892, with a .38 calibre from the year 1892. Sherlock smiled when he thought about the problems he'd had in order to obtain this beautiful gun; there were only a few of this exact model, from that exact year, in exactly the same condition as it had been sold after manufacturing. Sherlock's fingers brushed over the sleek metal of the barrel, where he had an expert engrave a tiny little message for John.

_For my dear John, with love, SH. _Brief and to the point; like John was.

Sherlock smiled and closed the lid of the black box again, storing it back in its hiding place. He hoped that John would like it; he'd had to ask Mycroft for help to purchase it, for God's sake. Sherlock shuddered and started pacing the sitting room. He was bored already; without John to keep him entertained, he lost interest in things quickly. But there was nothing to be done and, Sherlock thought with a smirk, when he _did _come back, he'd be occupied for the rest of the day.

* * *

John checked his pockets before he left 221B, making sure he had everything – for he and Sherlock would not come back to the flat for a long time. John picked up the bag Mrs Hudson had left for him, containing all the stuff he needed for Sherlock's surprise. He smiled happily and skipped through the front door, on his way to the shops. He'd been very pleased with Sherlock's suggestion concerning the jam. If he hadn't already planned something for the day, he'd have taken Sherlock right there, on the kitchen table, with his jam. But since he _had_ planned something, their little adventure would have to wait. John grinned to himself – Sherlock would love it, even more so with whipped cream. John exhaled slowly when the image of a topless Sherlock shot through his mind, whipped cream, chocolate and jam smeared over his chest and neck, all for John to lick up. He steadied himself against the wall of a building when he thought about the reverse; Sherlock licking _his _chest... Those lovely lips claiming his body...

_Get it together, John._

John took another deep breath and resumed walking, reaching the grocery store within minutes. He did the shopping quickly, avoiding the Chip and Pin machines. Instead he paid at the ordinary cashiers. 'Got a bit of a party going on?' she asked brightly, handing him his receipt.

John smiled. 'Oh, yes.'

* * *

Sherlock looked at his watch nervously. John was gone for over an hour already; usually, it didn't take him that long to do the shopping, especially when Sherlock had promised a nice adventure in the bedroom.

Sherlock was not the person to be concerned, especially not over John – the man could take care of himself. But it was a special day for them today, and Sherlock knew that John would not just leave him like that. Sherlock had almost jumped up to put on his coat and scarf and search for John when he received a text. Frowning, Sherlock checked his messages to see it was from John. Now completely confused, Sherlock read it – it was rather long – before shaking his head in amusement. 'That's my John,' he muttered before rereading the text.

_Dear Sherlock. As you've guessed, I am not just on my way to the grocery store. I told you I had a little surprise, and here it is. There is a little puzzle I'd like for you to solve. It tells you where I am._

_I am at a place of tremendous significance to us. It might not have been the happiest of places, but it certainly was important. Only one of us was there, but we still spoke. A statue is placed nearby. It is of a man, who I will associate with the numbers eight and six. _

_See you soon. X JW_

Sherlock suddenly suffered from a fit of laughter. He had certainly had influence on John, there was no denying. The man was clever, as Sherlock had obviously known, but Sherlock hadn't quite expected him to come up with anything like _this_; a challenge. Sherlock chuckled again, his mouth quirking in a smile that, had John been there, he would have classified as the "The Game Is On" smile.

The riddle was predictably obvious, though. Sherlock knew he would crack it if he set his mind to it. After all, John wasn't as intelligent as he was – no offense. Definitely no offense; John was intelligent, very much so indeed, but it was just that Sherlock was superior when it came to analytical thinking. No doubt he'd spent hours just thinking about this riddle, consulting the Wikipedia page without shame. Sherlock chuckled again. That was definitely his John. Sherlock shook his head; that sneaky little bugger.

Sherlock shut his eyes and shook his head again, violently this time, in a classic attempt to concentrate. His fingers shot up to his temples as all the thousands of building sites, parks and streets flashed before his mind. John couldn't be out of London, first of all because he had left only an hour ago, so he couldn't have gone far. Second of all because there was no place outside London which was of "tremendous significance" to the two of them. Next, Sherlock deleted all the places where they had had a nice time; Baker Street, Scotland Yard (more or less), and all the cafés and restaurants they'd been. _Not the happiest of places... _The pool? No, there was no statue connected to the numbers eight and six close to that. He checked all the alleys he knew of in his head, a number of them close to a statue, but that didn't match with the "one of us was there" condition.

Growling, Sherlock reversed his methods. He went over the statues of London in his head. _Trafalgar Square? _No, definitely not – they had both been there and nothing remotely bad had happened. _Anything in Hyde or Regent's Park? _He dismissed that as well. _Anything associated with the numbers eight and six. _Connections swirled through his mind. _Oxygen, number eight in the periodic table. Carbon, number six in the periodic table. _

_Eight. _

_Divisible by one, two, four and eight. 1000 in binary code. _

Sherlock wiped his mind clean. No – this is not how John thinks. John's mind is a simple, straightforward one. "Placid" and "barely used", he had used to describe it. Placid it still might be, though he knew better than anyone that Sherlock's was not, that Sherlock's would spin out of control if stimulation wasn't available. With a snigger, Sherlock remembered that one day, that one day when his brain had enough of boredom, that one day when he had needed his cigarettes, that one day that he had messed the whole flat up looking for them, eventually sniffing up Henry's smoke –

An electric shock – that's what it felt like when he realised the answer to John's riddle. _Henry. _Not Henry Knight, obviously; the man was not important, just a "friend", as John called him, suffering from twenty years of traumatic events. No, no, no, not the man who had lost his father to a so called "Hound". No.

_King Henry. _Henry the VIII, to be precise. That coincided with the number eight, at least. How about six...?

Ah. Obvious – Henry VIII had had six wives in total. Beheaded most of them, though Sherlock was sure that wasn't of any relevance. Now, where in London stood a statue of Henry VIII, which had a strong – not necessarily good – connection to John and him, where only one of them had been, yet they had still been talking?

Another electric shock and Sherlock opened his eyes in triumph. The gate to St. Bartholomew's Hospital had a statue of King Henry VIII above it. As far as Sherlock knew it, only he had been there – on the roof – but he had been talking to John, who was on the pavement, on the phone. Sherlock had jumped there, making the place quite the opposite of heavenly for both of them.

John was at St. Bart's rooftop.

Why was beyond him, but he'd be damned if he wasn't going there right that instant. Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf, decided against his black leather gloves and went out immediately, hailing a cab to take him to the hospital.

* * *

John had his hands in his pockets and he was pacing on the dull, grey roof of the old hospital. He'd never been there before, and frankly, if you had asked him weeks ago whether he ever wanted to set foot on it ever, he'd have answered that would be the last thing he'd ever want. He had seen the love of his life jump off this building. He had seen his broken body on the pavement, he had seen his dark hair clotted together with dark blood, which spread all over the pavement. He had felt a dead pulse.

But here he was, on that very rooftop, probably pacing the same concrete as Moriarty had – and Sherlock. He was looking over the same ledge as Sherlock had, he was looking at that very pavement he dreaded so much. But that was exactly why he was here, and soon Sherlock would be, too. And he'd know why John had chosen this daunting place, as soon as he'd come barging through the door.

John knew his riddle had been an easy one; for a normal mind, at least. Sherlock might figure it out sooner than most people, but that was only because all the information he needed was stored in his "brain-attic", or his "mind palace", as he so often called it. Regular – by lack of another word – people didn't save all this knowledge, but Sherlock did; he'd only have to get to it. That could take a little while, especially because Sherlock's mind didn't work the same way as most people's; his brain would automatically jump to the relevant data in his head, ready at all times, which Sherlock only kept in there for his cases. This wasn't a case, however, and so he had to ignore all the scientific nonsense popping up in his head in order to get through to the key to his riddle. John grinned. He thought he'd been quite ingenious; not necessarily concerning the riddle, but for understanding Sherlock's mind and using it against him.

He'd be there in a couple of minutes though, Sherlock wasn't _that _thick. John smiled victoriously for as long as it could last, and when he heard the door handle behind him turn, he spun around to face his boyfriend Sherlock Holmes and his smug half smile morphed into a real, mind blowing, detective-dazzlingly happy one.

'Sherlock!' he cried, more happily than he had intended to at first, which surprised him a little bit, but then Sherlock spread his arms and before he knew it, John was running up to the detective, a big smile on his exuberant face.

Sherlock took him in his arms, lifted him up and spun him around, John's feet dangling a foot above the floor – or the roof.

'Oi!' John shouted, laughing. He slapped Sherlock's arms affectionately, and his boyfriend let him go. When John's feet hit the roof again, he immediately stepped closer and soon they were surrounded in an embrace. Sherlock lowered his head and exercised gentle pressure on John's waist with his fingertips. John edged even closer, their chests touching now, and his hands stroked up Sherlock's back. He giggled as he realised his reaction to seeing a man he'd seen only ninety minutes earlier and he blushed. He tried to hide his face – _like a pubescent girl_, he thought shamefully. But Sherlock just extended one arm, touched his chin gingerly, and tilted it up so he could look John in the eyes.

'Happy anniversary,' he murmured in that lovely, hoarse, husky voice that couldn't be faked by anyone – not even himself.

'Happy anniversary,' John replied in a soft whisper, feeling his heart rate increase as Sherlock's lips drew nearer to his. In the split second before the detective closed his eyes, John could see the black sphere of his dilated pupils, surrounded by a thin sliver of pale greenish blue – John's favourite colour.

The kiss was soft and sweet, just a brush of the lips. John could feel Sherlock's breath on his skin and his lips move against his as he murmured, eyes still closed, 'Why here?'

John smiled slightly and pressed another kiss to Sherlock's parted lips. 'Because the memories we have of this place are bad ones,' he whispered. 'Because I want to be able to think of this roof as somewhere where we have experienced both bad _and _good things. I sort of wanted to "clear the demons", if you will.'

Sherlock pulled back slightly and fixed John with a penetrating gaze. He had narrowed his eyes and he bit his lower lip, clearly thinking. 'That is...' he said softly, shaking his head as he took John's head in his hands, 'That is so sweet, John. And I completely agree.' He leaned forward to rest their foreheads together and he closed his eyes again.

'What did you think of my riddle?' John asked a bit sheepishly, feeling a certain relief that they both had their eyes closed.

Sherlock smirked; he heard the tone in John's voice, he felt his pulse quicken in agitation. He decided to tell John the truth. 'I loved it,' he told him. 'Of course, you could have made it a bit harder and I still would have cracked it, and no doubt you used Wikipedia, but...'

'Oh, shut up,' John scoffed, burying his face in Sherlock's chest. His nose brushed the bare bit of skin that was revealed, the top buttons being always open. John exhaled slowly through his mouth, knowing that Sherlock's reaction to his warm breath would be an enjoyable one. And sure enough, Sherlock whimpered quietly, and the sound would have been inaudible to anyone but John. Grinning, John pressed his lips against the dip in between Sherlock's collar bones and he briefly flicked his tongue out to draw a small, wet circle. Beneath his hand, he felt Sherlock's rapidly increasing heart rate and above his head, he heard a soft moan. 'John...'

'This isn't the end of my surprise,' John said, stroking Sherlock's arms. 'Let's get down again, I'll show you.'

'We're not going back to Baker Street?' Sherlock asked breathlessly, a bit bewildered.

John shook his head. 'No,' he said. 'Problem?'

'None at all,' Sherlock panted. 'Although, I have something for you, and it's still back at the flat...'

'You can give it to me when we get home. Which will be tonight,' John whispered, emphasising the last word. He kissed Sherlock's jaw and took his hand, walking towards the door that would lead them to the staircase. Sherlock followed, still confused, and John smirked; only he could get Sherlock Holmes to feel confused.

They walked out the hospital together holding hands, and still Sherlock didn't know where they were going. He noticed John was walking purposefully, so he knew their destination. Since they weren't hailing a cab, and John clearly wasn't planning to, it must be close by. And John had said they'd get home tonight, so it obviously wasn't a hotel of some kind. This didn't help him a lot, so reluctantly, without taking his eyes off the street before him, he asked, 'Where are we going?'

John smiled enigmatically. 'Of course you'd want to know. I wasn't planning on telling you, but since you are _so _persistent...'

'I am not!' Sherlock protested.

'You are,' John contradicted. 'Anyway, we are going to find a nice, quiet spot in the park, preferably in the forest, where Mrs Hudson has already laid out everything I planned.'

'And that is?' Sherlock queried, a frustrated frown on his face, even though he quite liked the scene John had described.

John ignored him and he looked up at the blue sky. 'Lovely day, isn't it?'

'It's cold,' Sherlock said, pulling his coat tightly around him. 'It's January, John.' Sherlock decided it best to drop the subject of "what John had planned" and lowered himself to the concept of small talk.

'Doesn't mean it can't be a nice day,' John said. 'I'm not even sure I mind the cold that much.' With that, he unhooked his arm from Sherlock's and slipped it under the man's coat, drawing Sherlock closer to his own body. Sherlock huffed, but he couldn't keep a smile off his own face and his arm from curling around John's shoulders.

* * *

'A picnic?' Sherlock asked incredulously when he saw the blanket stretched over the earthy ground, Mrs Hudson's picnic basket perched on one of the corners. The cold, dead leaves on the floor scrunched under their feet, and despite the rays of sun beaming through the small gaps between the barren tree branches, a cold breeze ruffled through their hair.

'A picnic,' John nodded, pulling Sherlock towards the blanket. A few pillows were also stacked up in one corner, and John could see another blanket beside them, folded up neatly. 'Come on then, Sherlock,' he said with a happy smile. Sherlock sighed and stepped forward, throwing himself down on one of the pillows John had laid out for him. He tried to be sulking, but John looked so happy that he couldn't keep it up; a smile of his own spread across his face when John sat down beside him and pulled the basket closer, and Sherlock could hear his stomach growling. He sniggered and John shot him a dignified look. 'You're going to eat,' he said. 'End of discussion.'

'Do you happen to have jam?' Sherlock asked teasingly.

'I do,' John said, but Sherlock couldn't make anything out from his expression. It frustrated him and he pouted his lower lip in a great imitation of a five year-old. He grabbed the sandwich John offered him without a word and he started nibbling on it, while John's was gone within seconds.

After three sandwiches on John's part, the doctor looked to his right and saw Sherlock still nibbling on his first sandwich, taking the smallest of bites. John smiled widely and he watched Sherlock eat, which was quite rare and usually when did eat, John wasn't able – or allowed – to watch. Actually, it was quite endearing; the small bites, the gentle chewing, the muscles in his throat when he swallowed... John shook his head. Watching Sherlock do _anything_ always ended up like this; him getting turned on.

He decided to wait until Sherlock had finished eating, though; the man barely got some nourishment and John did not want to spoil this rare opportunity because of his human needs. Instead, he drank something and continued to watch his boyfriend, who had decided to ditch the nibbling and stuffed the last bit in his mouth. This affected John even more and he almost squirmed in his pillow; when Sherlock swallowed, he wouldn't be able to restrain himself anymore.

And he was right; Sherlock's eyelids fluttered when he swallowed the big bite, the muscles in his jaw and neck contracted, and his lips looked so gorgeously full – before Sherlock had any idea what was going on, John threw himself on top of the detective and pushed him on his back. Sherlock bit his lower lip in pleasure and groaned in surprise. He quickly felt John's lips on his neck and he threw his head back to give John better access. The movement pulled his skin tighter around his muscles and John moaned at the change beneath his lips.

Sherlock writhed underneath him, clawing at his back with his long, pale fingers. He hooked one leg around John's and arched his back, making full contact with John's body. In a sudden need for John's lips, he dragged his hands up from John's back and put them on his cheeks instead, turning his face away from his neck so he could capture his lips with his.

This kiss was anything but brief and sweet; it was deep, needy and passionate. Soon enough, Sherlock parted his lips to trace John's lower lip with his tongue as if asking for permission. John gave him that and parted his lips in return, and he felt Sherlock's tongue go deeper, exploring his mouth. John pressed Sherlock tighter to the picnic rug, pinning him down with his legs and one arm. The other one, his right arm, searched for the jaw of jam that was just a foot away. It was still open and he dipped his finger in it before pulling back. He disconnected their mouths and brought his right hand closer. He saw Sherlock's nostrils flare as he sniffed and raised his eyebrows. Eventually, Sherlock smiled in comprehension and he grabbed John's wrist, directing it towards his lips. He licked down the length of John's finger before closing his mouth around it, his tongue swirling to lick up all of the sticky stuff.

John was making noises, panting in Sherlock's shoulder. He kissed the detective's neck and he wondered what it would taste like with chocolate on it. But that would come later, when they were back home – the park, shaded by a few bare, leaf-robbed trees was hardly the place to do such a thing.

That didn't mean, though, that they couldn't enjoy themselves for the rest of the evening. And so they did.

* * *

It really was late when John finally turned the key in the lock of 221B Baker Street. They were both tired and well fed, and still full of each other. John knew a long night was ahead, but, looking at his beautiful boyfriend, he knew that whatever he did with him was something good.

Before he could walk to Sherlock's bedroom however, a long arm stopped him. John looked at Sherlock questioningly, but the man walked to the kitchen and opened a cupboard. John was about to say that he wasn't interested in Sherlock's experiments and that he would start getting ready for bed, but Sherlock turned around, a black box in his hands. He beckoned John closer and put it on the kitchen table.

'Your present,' he announced a bit shyly. He clasped his hands tightly behind his back, fingers of his left nervously tapping on the back of his right. John smiled and went to stand beside his lover, his hands on the lid of the box. Sherlock smiled nervously and gave John a nod before resuming his tapping. He looked away from John for a moment, but, deciding he wanted to see his face, looked back just in time.

John's face was priceless; his mouth hung open, his eyes were wide and his cheeks were red. He brought his hands down to touch the gun, but he did it very carefully, as if he was afraid he might break it.

'Sherlock,' he gasped. 'How did you get this?'

'I've got my ways,' Sherlock smiled.

'Mycroft,' John stated, his finger brushing over the engraving. He read it and suddenly, "I love you" was written all over his face.

'What do you think?' Sherlock asked, watching over John's shoulder tentatively. He risked a glance at John, who happened to look up, his dark blue eyes open and clear. John threw his arms around Sherlock's neck and hugged him close. 'I think it's fantastic. I love you, Sherlock.'

'And I you, John.'

* * *

**First of all, an apology. I am SO sorry it took me so long to get this up. There's no time for excuses, I just wasn't enough. That's why it's a bit longer than the rest of the chapters (only a little bit though) and i hope the contents made up for the delay.  
I'd really love for you to review, to tell me what you think, but of course that's entirely up to you.. I hope you had fun reading, that's all I ever want :D  
And a few suggestions as to further chapters have been made, I noted them, and please feel free to frop in any ideas/prompts you want to read about.  
x Hedgehog**


	5. Chapter 5: Mummy Holmes

**5. Mummy Holmes**

The next morning resulted in awkward situation for John. He found himself alone in Sherlock's bed – no, _their _bed – the whipped cream on the floor beside the bed, the jar of jam on the bedside table, and traces of hot chocolate on the white sheets. Without opening his eyes, he already knew Sherlock wasn't with him; there was no body curled around him, no warm breath in his neck, no hands on his chest.

John sighed and decided to take a shower; he was already naked and though he had enjoyed last night's activities, he felt sticky.

So John walked out their bedroom, taking the three-yard-journey to the bathroom. John shot a glance at the sitting room and he grinned to see Sherlock on his chair, plucking the strings of his violin, a heavy blush on his cheeks. He was about to make a detour when he heard the voice coming from the seat across from Sherlock.

'Well, Doctor Watson. Do take a shower, and after that I request you get dressed properly and sit with us.'

Mycroft Holmes.

_Mycroft bloody Holmes was in his sitting room and John was stark naked. _John's eyebrows rose in panic and he shot through the bathroom door after catching a glance from Sherlock; his cheeks were still pink but an amused smile played around his lips and he winked at John.

John shut the door quickly and sank to his knees on the tiled bathroom floor, head in his hands. Luckily there had only been the _voice _of the other Holmes brother, and he hadn't actually seen him. _What a comfort, _John thought.

He showered quickly and found to his relief that Sherlock had put his clothes in the bathroom already that morning. He had probably known that Mycroft was coming over and he'd taken the necessary precautions, so John would not have to get out there in just a towel.

It took a while for John to gather up the courage to open the door again, but other than a smirk from Sherlock it seemed as if his embarrassing entrée had never happened. He went straight to the kitchen to make himself some tea – no breakfast; Mycroft had shaken him so much that his appetite had vanished.

'Some tea, Mycroft?' he asked, successful in keeping the tremble out of his voice.

'Please,' replied Mycroft, not taking his eyes off his brother. 'Come, Sherlock, you knew it would eventually come to this.'

'I did, and I choose to ignore it. It's not my business what she wants from us.' Sherlock looked frustrated and resentful, two things that did not go well together in the genius brain. He was angrily plucking at the delicate strings of his violin, as he always did when he was deep in thought of frustrated.

'She does not want "anything from you",' Mycroft sighed, obviously annoyed. 'And it _is _your business,' he added sternly.

John handed Mycroft his tea and perched himself on the sofa, his own cup in his hands. 'Who is "she"?' he asked when the conversation didn't continue. Sherlock rolled his eyes and picked up his bow and a white cloth, and started cleaning the horsehairs of the instrument. Clearly, he refused to answer so John turned to Mycroft. 'Sherlock said "us", so it concerns me. I have the right to know.'

Mycroft took his time, sipping his tea, checking his impeccable suit for any nonexistent stains before answering.

'It was only a matter of time before your relationship became, ah... _public_,' he began. 'Naturally, you being an internet phenomenon, your personal life is followed thoroughly. Your involvement is, as they say, a "hit" on the internet, and I'm afraid that Mummy is not one of those people not to read a blog every once in a while...'

John's eyes widened. 'Mummy?' he repeated, looking from Mycroft to Sherlock. 'Mummy?' he said once more, a bit weakly. He cleared his throat, suddenly realising that the bubbling fear he felt when he heard the name Mycroft used to refer to his mother was completely irrational. But he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that Mummy Holmes was something in between her sons, and that she knew about her youngest having a homosexual relationship with his flatmate – John wasn't sure what she would think of him, but suddenly he felt like a teenager again, anxiously waiting to be approved of by "the parents-in-law".

His expression must have been clear on his face, for both Mycroft and Sherlock chuckled mysteriously.

'And now she's intrigued,' Mycroft continued. 'She wants to meet you, after all, the man who managed to change Sherlock Holmes' very nature is certainly worth to be intrigued by.'

'I did not _change _him,' John spat, his fear coming out as anger, Mycroft being an easy target. 'I just did the opposite of what those bullied did when he was in school; I talked to him, I opened him up. This has been there all these years, Mycroft, he just put it away because he was bullied! You're the big brother, where were you, then? Hm? He needed someone and _you_,' he pointed a finger at Mycroft, 'were supposed to be there.'

Mycroft raised his eyebrows coldly, but John knew he'd struck a nerve; his upper lip twitched. John looked to his right and he saw Sherlock stare at him; eyes twice as big, mouth open in a full "O". Next, a fire filled his eyes and he licked his lips before he bit his lower one. John knew that look; arousal.

Bad, very bad, not good, not in the least. Well, usually it was, and God, Sherlock biting his lip was such a turn-on, but dear Heavens, not with _Mycroft _in the room!

John turned, angry look back on his face. 'Listen to me, Mycroft. Tell Mummy I'll meet her whenever she likes. And now out of my house before I physically harm you!' _Or mentally, _John thought when he recalled Sherlock's expression. Mycroft should watch out.

Giving John one last smug grin, he turned his back and walked out of the sitting room, swirling his umbrella in his hand.

'Arrogant sod,' John murmured. Then suddenly, he lurched forward when he felt a body collide with his, sending him to fall on the sofa, the wiry muscles of Sherlock Holmes' body flat against his.

'Sherlock, what the hell –?'

'Sorry, John, I can't help myself. When you defend me, I feel this rush of affection, and when you're angry, you take this erect stance which reminds me of that time you showed me your uniform, and how much I'd love to see it on you... You just... what's the word...'

'Turn me on?' John supplied with a smirk. He squirmed around so he was on his back, facing his boyfriend. He put one hand on Sherlock's chin and he could see the lust in those beautiful, pale eyes.

'Yes,' he admitted in a husky voice. 'Very much.'

'We do have to talk about this, though,' John said. 'About Mycroft, and your mother wanting to meet us... me,' he corrected himself with a shake of the head, but he was silenced by a pale, slender finger on his lips.

'Later,' Sherlock breathed before he kissed him. He ran his hand though John's short hair and he heard the doctor gasp as he caught him by surprise. It quickly turned into a moan as Sherlock ran his tongue along John's bottom lip and he leaned against Sherlock with his entire weight, making him stumble backwards onto the sofa. Sherlock fought for his dominance and turned them around at the last moment, pushing John on the sofa instead of him. Before John had a chance to escape – as if he wanted to – he pinned him down with his own body, his knees on either side of John's thighs. He sat down on John's legs so he wouldn't tower over him, although it didn't help much. Sherlock was too preoccupied to give a damn about their height difference though, and he leaned forwards, taking John's head in his hands. He rested his forehead against the doctor's, and he closed his eyes, whispering;

'I love you.'

He spoke the words slowly, and when he heard the quiet mutter of reciprocation he grinned and let the tips of their noses touch.

'You are brave, John Watson. I'm sorry that you'll have to face my mother.'

John chuckled and let his hands wander off, finding them on Sherlock's buttocks a few seconds later. 'She can't be that bad. If she's even remotely like you, I like her.'

Sherlock blushed due to the compliment and John's hands on his backside and he brushed his nose against John's. 'Don't forget Mycroft,' he chuckled.

John paled a slight bit, but he laughed and joked; 'Oh, no! Your mother and your brother might kill me with their timetables, phone calls and neglected diets!'

Sherlock laughed for real now, and it was for that sound and that sight that he lived for. Without thinking, he grabbed Sherlock's collar and pulled him forward for their lips to meet. Sherlock fell forward and he had to stop himself from crashing into John by placing his hands on either side of John's head. This way, he was entirely encircled around John and the doctor had no chance or possibility to get away. He did not put up a fight, though – he merely grabbed Sherlock's collar tighter, and lifted his left hand to brush through Sherlock's dark curls. He lifted his hips slightly from the sofa and made contact with Sherlock's, who groaned and grabbed fist-fulls of John's military-short blond hair. He wiggled closer to John and returned the movement, causing a deep moan to rise from John's chest.

'Sherlock,' he breathed. 'Oh, God. I love you so, so much...'

'Enough to meet the woman who gave birth to me and Mycroft?' Sherlock sniggered.

'Oh, yes,' said John seriously. 'Giving birth to you must have been the most wonderful thing happening in all time. Funny little kid you must have been.'

'Then look at Mycroft,' Sherlock laughed. He bent forward to press his lips against John's again, this time long and passionate, his fingertips a light tingle on John's neck and cheeks. 'Mycroft informed me that my mother expects us to be at the Holmes manor at precisely three o'clock, in time for tea. We will be staying for dinner but we'll return to Baker Street before nine. Are you okay with that?'

John nodded, swallowed and asked, 'What day?'

Sherlock opened his eyes in surprise. 'Well, today, of course!' he said, smiling at John's shocked expression. 'Relax,' he said next, when it started to worry him. 'It'll be fine. I'm sure Mummy will like you; you're funny, clever, witty, successful and my mother always appreciates a handsome face. Not to mention that she's been nagging at me to "get a girlfriend, boyfriend, a relationship, _ever_!" She'll be pleased with you. Also, she hates death due to wars. She's always boring Mycroft with her rants, "can't you stop it?!" The fact that you're an army doctor would help a lot.' Sherlock eyes his speechless boyfriend with sparkling eyes and he kissed his cheek softly. 'My army doctor.'

'You make it sound like I'm some sort of war-hero who's able to save anyone he touches,' John said when he found his voice again.

'You saved me,' Sherlock whispered and he looked deeply in John's eyes, trying to let his eyes speak for him. 'You saved _me_.'

* * *

'But, Sherlock, what should I wear? What does your mother expect from me?'

'She'll expect you to be yourself,' Sherlock said as he was lying down on their bed, watching John in front of the closet. 'Wear what you would usually wear when you meet the in-laws.' Sherlock smirked.

John huffed. 'You make it sounds as if we are getting married, Sherlock.'

Sherlock frowned. 'Aren't we?' he asked, bemused. He chuckled because John's expression was priceless; his eyes were two wide, dark blue orbs and his mouth hung open. 'In a way...?' Sherlock added. 'Isn't that what couples do, when they know there won't be anyone else? When they know they've found the right one? When they know they have found the person they'll stay with for the rest of their lives? Because I know that I have found mine, John. There won't be anyone else for me, you are the one, and I want to spend the rest of my days with you.'

John bit his lip; he was moved by Sherlock's sudden expression of love; he rarely said something so passionate, aside from a daily "I love you". John grinned when a sudden happiness clouded his anxiety for his boyfriend's mother. 'Is this a proposal?' he chuckled. 'But unromantic, don't you think? Then again, romance isn't your strong point, I suppose.'

'Hardly,' Sherlock replied to the first – and initial – question. 'But it's certainly something to think about. And Watson...'

John frowned and felt a stirring in his lower belly as he heard Sherlock address him with his last name. 'Yeah?'

'You don't know how romantic I can be.'

John nodded, still with an enormous grin on his face. Their conversation, however light and sarcastic, had made him very happy indeed. Feeling much better, John grabbed an ordinary pair of jeans and a button-down shirt. He hesitated; 'Jumper or cardigan?'

'I'd go for the cardigan,' Sherlock supplied, a vague look in his eyes. 'When my dad wasn't wearing suits, he was wearing cardigans...'

John smiled and grabbed his mahogany cardigan and undressed shamelessly, causing Sherlock to stir from his childhood memories. He licked his lips at the sight of John's muscled back and legs and was very content with him bending over to grab his socks.

Then, John's eye fell on the black box somewhere in the closet and he pulled it out, smiling. He took it and sat next to Sherlock, who looked quite self-satisfied.

'Are you going to use it instead of your Browning?' he asked as John gingerly lifted the old gun from its velvet cushion.

'No way!' John looked shocked. 'This is an old gun; it can only hold so much. And your message is on it – what if I lost it? No, this is staying in the flat. Might occasionally shoot the wall... Gotta keep it in shape, eh?' He grinned as Sherlock shot him a knowing look. 'But to be honest with you, I never thought you'd give me something like this. The fortune it most have cost, Sherlock!'

The detective kept that grin on his face as he eyes John's excitement over the old Colt M1892. John let his fingers wander over the sleek iron of the barrel, where the engraving was made.

'Yes, it was expensive,' Sherlock said. 'But you are absolutely worth every single penny – and more. You, John Watson, are my everything.'

He turned his head toward John's and put his hand over John's fingers, which were still over the engraving. He met his lips in a gentle kiss before he pulled back.

'We've got to visit my mother.'

* * *

The Holmes manor was huge. John gaped at it and was shocked to find Sherlock glare at it in disgust. His eyes were tiny slits and his gaze was venomous. 'I grew up in this house,' he said, unannounced. 'Never been the brightest of times for me.'

John frowned in concern. 'Because of the bullies,' he stated, not making it a question.

Sherlock nodded. 'Yes. And, like you said, Mycroft knew but he did nothing to help me. Perhaps he was just scared himself. My mother didn't know; I was very good at hiding my emotions. So I suppose I can't really blame her, but... I still feel so angry. She was my mother!' he said loudly, gripping John's hand tightly. John squeezed back soothingly and whispered: 'I know, I understand, Sherlock. I'm here. Now, let's go in so I can meet her and you can set things straight. Okay?'

Sherlock nodded and smiled. 'Good luck, doctor Watson. You'll need it.'

John bit his lips as his heart started thumping. He really _did _feel like a teenager again, meeting his girlfriend's parents. Luckily, there were two different factors; A, there was no girlfriend, and B, there was no intimidating father. Only a very intimidating mother.

They walked up the wide gravelled path that stretched along the impeccably even lawn, leading up to the big, dark oak slabs of wood that were the front door. Ringing the bell wasn't necessary, apparently; they were right on time and they were expected. The door opened, revealing a big hallway with two flights of stairs, an elegantly tiled floor and a golden chandelier. A black-suited man with an obvious outline of a gun tucked away in the waistband of his trousers nodded at them and led them in with a tight smile. 'Mr Holmes, Dr Watson.'

Sherlock nodded back. 'Where are we expected? I can walk there myself,' he said with an obvious roll of the eyes.

'The backyard, Mr Holmes.'

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. 'Oh, Lord, a garden party,' he sighed. 'Thanks, Manuel. Come on, John...'

Sherlock led John to the end of the hall, took a left turn and walked on until he reached a set of French doors. John could see a big, green, well-maintained lawn through the tiny squares of glass. Sherlock opened the doors, grabbing John's hand, and together they walked out upon the patio, which continued along the side of the house. They followed it and after half a minute of walking, an unlit outside-fireplace was visible, chairs and sofas surrounding it, overlooking a big oak and the tiniest of ponds.

John had to remind himself that they were not exactly in London at the moment and that this was actually possible here. Even though London wasn't that far away, John still had to adjust himself to the scenery that was so different to the greyness and the straight lines that was the capital of their city.

John turned his head as a movement in the corner of his eye distracted him. A tall, elegant woman rose from one of the luxury garden chairs, a smile upon her face. Her hair was the same dark brown as Sherlock's, almost black, though there were some grey streaks visible as it was pulled into a bun. Her eyes sparkled with pleasure and John could easily mistake the pale colour for Sherlock's. She smiled as she saw her youngest son with his partner and she walked up to them. She drew Sherlock in a warm, motherly embrace and before John could hold out his hand, she did the same to him. John was surprised but he smiled; it seemed like Mrs Holmes wasn't the cold, stone-hearted woman John had imagined from Sherlock's stories.

'John Watson,' she said, pulling back and looking at his face. 'How very nice to meet you. Augustine Homes, Sherlock's mother.'

'Hello,' John said, immediately feeling comfortable. 'Nice to finally meet you.'

'Oh, there is so much I'd like to talk about with you two!' Mrs Holmes said with a smile. 'Do please sit down.' She gestured towards the low sofa, while she herself sat down in a chair next to them, close enough to have a conversation but far away enough to let them breathe.

Sherlock and John sat down and Sherlock grabbed John's hand again, immediately after they were seated. This did not go unnoticed by Mrs Holmes, and she smiled warmly. John smiled back, all his worries disappearing. Who would have known that the woman who raised Sherlock Holmes would be so likeable, and so charismatic?

'Where should we start?' she mused. 'Oh! Of course, would you like something to drink?'

'Please,' John smiled. 'A Guinness, if you have that.'

'Of course. Sherlock?'

'Oh, just a beer would do.'

John frowned as Mrs Holmes rose to get the drinks. 'You don't usually drink beer,' he remarked.

'I also don't usually introduce my boyfriend to my mother,' Sherlock said with a smirk, lacing his fingers through John's. 'Really, I might need it.'

John chuckled and soon Sherlock joined in. Mrs Holmes came back, a servant girl carrying a tray with their drinks. John thanked her and was immediately engulfed in a conversation with Mrs Holmes, telling her how they met.

'... And then I walked into the lab and I saw him, looking through the microscope, the most remarkable man I'd ever seen...'

'John, we both know that it took us more than three years to reach this point in our relationship. You're just romanticising it, like in your blog.'

'I've read the blog,' Mrs Holmes exclaimed delightedly. 'I think it's wonderful.'

John beamed at her and, seeing John so happy, Sherlock couldn't help but smile as well. This could not have gone unnoticed by his mother and she glanced happily at their joined hands. She sighed and sipped from her wine. 'I am so happy that you've finally found someone, Sherlock. Honestly, I thought you never would.'

Sherlock shrugged. He looked at John and he smiled brightly. 'I am happy too. I don't know what'd happen to me if anything happened to him. I don't think I can live without him.'

'But,' Mrs Holmes said with a smile, 'as I recall, you once told me, in your teenage years, that you "couldn't care less about those ordinary social involvements". How come you changed your mind?'

'I didn't,' Sherlock said. He shot John a reassuring glance, for he had looked up, a bit hurt. 'It's just John.'

'Then what is it in John that makes you forget about all your priorities? I'm not saying I mind, but I'm curious. I couldn't get through to him, so how could you?' she asked John directly now, and the army doctor was speechless; he hadn't the faintest. He looked at Sherlock questioningly, curious for his answer; he wanted to know what Sherlock thought about him.

'It's because he is the one person to understand me, he often knows what I mean, what I need, when I can't even express it properly. When we first met, he didn't say "piss off", he didn't push me away like I was some sort of freak. I'm not saying that he trusted me, but it was different from how most people react to me. But... I don't know how he became to mean so much to me. I can't tell toy, though I can tell you're dying to figure it out.' A bit of Sherlock's "old" personality broke through as he quirked a sarcastic eyebrow. Mrs Holmes smiled enigmatically. 'And I will, Sherlock, dear. It's obvious however that you love him. Tell me – how does it feel? That love you have for him?'

John grinned as he waited for his boyfriend to answer. He hadn't known what to expect of Sherlock's mother, but he certainly had not anticipated this; the kind, motherly and remarkable woman that she was. John held Sherlock's hand tightly, not even caring to be embarrassed about it.

'Please, Mother,' Sherlock said. 'Emotions aren't my area, how can I even begin to explain the hardest one? Yes, I do love John, and I want to spend the rest of my days with him, and it's confusing and sometimes difficult but mostly it feels good because I know that he feels the same. And I don't regret not having a relationship sooner – like I said, it's just John, no one but my John.'

'You really mean that,' John whispered as Mrs Holmes sat back, satisfied and proud.

Sherlock shifted his gaze from his mother to his boyfriend and he felt the familiar, tingling feeling come over him again as he looked into his eyes. 'Of course. I love you.'

John smiled brightly and seemed to have forgotten Mrs Holmes' presence as he kissed him softly. Sherlock hadn't forgotten at all; he just didn't care whether his mother was with them or not. The short, sweet kiss lasted no longer than three seconds, but it still left John flustered.

'Sorry,' he muttered to Mrs Holmes and he coughed. Now it was Sherlock's time to grin and hold on to his lover's hand. He looked at his mother with a look that John defined as, "See, Mum? I can kiss someone if I really want to".

Mrs Holmes chuckled and clapped her hands delightedly. 'John Watson, how glad I am that he found you. You don't know how long I've been waiting for Sherlock to get someone. He's always been alone, even through secondary school and university...'

Sherlock shuffled uncomfortable in his seat next to John, who had fixed him with a stern but gentle gaze. 'Oh, yes. Uhm... about that... I've got to tell you something.'

Mrs Holmes set her bright, intelligent eyes on him and John could feel through the light squeeze of Sherlock's hand that he was highly uncomfortable. John knew enough of Sherlock's feelings to be sure that he feared his mother, even if it was just a little bit. John guessed it had something to do with the fact that she was the only one, except for Mycroft, who could have power over Sherlock. Being submissive was usually not who Sherlock was – _except occasionally in the bedroom_, John thought with a smirk – and the feeling of someone superior to him frightened him.

'What is it, dear?' she asked, her voice suddenly calmer and more gentle; a mother's voice.

Sherlock frowned and looked at John, those wide puppy eyes searching for reassurance. He found it in a brush of John's hand and a smile. He faced his mother again. He took a deep breath. 'My schooldays haven't been... quite enjoyable,' he forced out. Mrs Holmes' brow wrinkled slightly as she tilted her head, trying to understand what Sherlock was saying.

'So...' Sherlock continued, his throat thick. 'I wasn't, let's say, popular. At all. And I never told you because I thought you wouldn't listen anyway. I lost interest after a year or so.' Sherlock stayed quiet and he stared at his hands, which were clasping John's desperately. John started rubbing Sherlock's shoulder as he worked up the courage to look up at his mother.

She was staring at him intently, a sad but motherly look on her face. 'Oh, Sherlock. And you think that I never noticed? A mother knows her child, how hard you might try to hide how you really feel. Of course I knew, but I didn't say anything because I know that it might not be appreciated.'

Sherlock's eyes were huge in shock. They darted to John for just a split second, who smiled at him, before they swept back to the elegant woman opposite them.

'But why... didn't you... Why didn't you act on it?' he asked, a bit of anger in his voice. 'I suffered! And you let it happen!'

'No, dear,' Mrs Holmes said softly. She leaned forward and held her eyes on her youngest son. 'I am your mother. I couldn't go and let you be bullied for six years, now could I?'

'But it didn't stop!' Sherlock contradicted, squeezing John's hand so tightly it reached the point of pain.

'Dear, didn't you say you stopped caring after a year or so? You lost focus, you stopped paying attention. I actually managed a lot from then on. Haven't you noticed?'

Sherlock frowned again. 'I...' his forehead smoothed out as realisation hit him. 'Oh. Yes. They used to beat me up occasionally, but that stopped after a year or two. They stopped waiting for me around the corner...'

Mrs Holmes smiled. 'See, dear? I know it wasn't easy. But I did what I could to make school easier for you without interfering too much in your personal life.'

And Sherlock was quiet again. Tears gleamed in his eyes, but only John could see them. After a while, Sherlock muttered a quiet; 'Thank you.'

* * *

They had a lovely high tea in the drawing room and they chatted a bit more. John and Mrs Holmes liked each other, it seemed, and even Sherlock joined in, more comfortable after his talk with his mum. The time flew by and before they knew it, dinner was ready. Mycroft joined them, to both Sherlock and John's surprise. But Sherlock and Mycroft could refrain from arguing for once (Mrs Holmes fixed them with a stern glare and they immediately averted their eyes, cheeks a bright red).

John was having such a good time that he and Sherlock (who was also enjoying himself rather more than he had thought) decided to stay for dessert (a big chocolate pudding – Sherlock and John, who remembered Christmas dinner, giggled uncontrollably) and by the time they had finished that – and some glasses of wine – it was already late and neither Sherlock nor John felt like calling a cab to take them back to Baker Street.

'Well, you can stay over, of course. You can use Sherlock's room. I believe we've got everything you need, and Sherlock's bed is big enough.'

John blushed and muttered a quiet "thanks" before Sherlock spontaneously hugged his mother and dragged John upstairs with him, holding his hand. John chuckled and waved a warm goodbye to Mrs Holmes. She smiled warmly in return and chuckled when her youngest son seized his boyfriend by the wrist and pulled him on the stairs.

'Sherlock!' John chided with a broad smile. 'I'm coming, you don't have to drag me up here...' John's voice had a stern ring to it, but he followed Sherlock enthusiastically and the smile on his face only broadened.

Sherlock merely chuckled and tightened his fingers around John's. They reach the end of the long, curving stairs and they stepped onto the landing. Sherlock pulled John with him again, leading him to his bedroom.

It was an ordinary wooden door that led to Sherlock's old bedroom, and John could hardly believe that it could be so plain. Full of anticipation, John stepped inside, followed by his boyfriend. John looked around appreciatively as Sherlock stood beside him, hands on his back and staring at the grey carpet. The room was spacious though that was mostly because of the lack of furnishing; there was a large bed on the left wall, a window opposite the door. Opposite the bed was a closet, a desk – which was as messy as Baker Street – and a cabinet filled with books. John had no problem imagining Sherlock here as a teenager, hunched over his murder books, looking into newspaper scraps for mysterious cases.

'Nice,' John said. He turned to Sherlock, who had lifted his gaze and was now staring at John with a light pink blush. 'Very nice. So, shall we just... change and get into bed?'

Sherlock smirked. 'Let me just go to the bathroom first... Need to freshen up, especially after this evening.' He gave John a short peck on the mouth before he went out the door again, going into another down the hall. John didn't follow him; he wouldn't dare, knowing that Mrs Holmes and Mycroft were still downstairs. So he settled himself on Sherlock's bed, waiting for his turn for the bathroom.

Sherlock returned some seven minutes later, his dark, messy curls damp and sticking to the sides of his face and neck. He smelled fresh and delicious and – John gasped – he was only wearing a towel, which hang low on his hips. John stared at his pale chest and the protruding hipbones and he had to mentally shake himself to head towards the bathroom. He caught a glimpse of a smirking Sherlock and he almost turned around again, yanking the towel off his bloody narrow hips, just to wipe that ridiculous grin off his face. But instead, he went into the bathroom – spacious and a pearly white – which was still hot and damp from Sherlock's shower. John decided to be quick and in five minutes he was back again, like Sherlock in a towel, carrying his clothes with him.

Sherlock, who had changed in only a pair of dark boxers, lay stretched out on his back, his damp curls a halo around his head. John put on his underwear (light, approving hums of Sherlock in the background) and snuggled in next to his boyfriend, curling up in his arms. Sherlock smiled and bowed his head. John got the gesture and tilted his, so his lips could meet Sherlock's. The sweet kiss soon turned into something more, something that involved sound, tongues and touches. Within a few minutes, Sherlock had John pinned to the bed, licking and biting at his neck and shoulders. John's hands were all over Sherlock's back, arms, shoulders, hair and buttocks, remembering Sherlock's skin, bones and muscles. John nudged Sherlock's face up with his nose and claimed his lips again, raising a leg to curl around Sherlock, stroking to detective's calf with his foot. Sherlock shivered, jerking his hips against John's. They both gasped and kissed again, hands working at the waistband of the other's underwear.

Both were breathing heavily now, nipping and licking at each other's lips and jaw and earlobes, hips moving in a desperate but rhythmical pace.

They didn't realise – or care, at least not at the moment – that their moans and grunts could be heard downstairs. Breakfast next morning left John, like the day before, flustered as Mycroft dragged his eyes over the pair of them, shaking his head and muttering something unintelligible.

Mrs Holmes however had a sparkle in her eyes and while she didn't say anything, John knew he had been accepted as Sherlock's partner and he smiled back, a silent "thank you". She nodded and returned her gaze to her breakfast.

Around noon, John decided he still wanted to see the magnificent garden of the Holmes manor and Sherlock complied to showing him around. They walked hand in hand and John felt happy, and he could tell by the smile on Sherlock's face that he felt happy too.

They passed the giant oak next to the pond and entered a secluded section, a small fountain in the middle and flowerbeds around it. Sherlock halted next to a bush of red roses and he smiled. 'John,' he said.

John look up at him, noticing the slight change in his voice. It sounded extremely happy, but also... nervous.

'Yes, Sherlock?' he asked, not daring to hope.

'I was thinking... maybe... That conversation we had earlier, I mean to say, yesterday...' Sherlock cleared his throat and a light pink blush spread to his cheeks.

'Yes...?' John said, heart hammering in his throat.

'I thought, well... Would you want to... I mean...' Sherlock coughed again. 'Marry me?'

He bit his lower lip in that way John loved so much and he didn't hesitate in answering.

'I thought you'd never ask,' he whispered and he pulled Sherlock down by his collar and kissed him.

* * *

**Okay, so I've got a few things to announce. Firstly, the fact that #OhmyGodIEngagedThem. Well, it actually is a surprise to myself - I got the suggestion to let them get engaged and married, and I have to say that at first I wasn't quite sure about that... I just don't see Sherlock as a marrying type, I think he'd find those papers idiotic, his reasoning being that you don't need a signed paper to legitimise your love or something. But hey, I just can't get over the idea of our two boys in suits, saying "I do" and, come on; A honeymoon. **

**Second of all - I am so sorry, terribly sorry, but I will not be updating this story regularly from now on (not that I ever did xD) because I've got a lot going on. I'm writing four fics at the same time with Otter at the moment and school's begun to get really heavy already, so I had to make sacrifices... But don't worry, the wedding will come, so will the honeymoon, and lots of other stories! Don't hesitate to drop suggestions or just reviews in general and I thank you all for reading and hope you'll still be here when the story continues...**


	6. Chapter 6: The Engagement Talk

**6. The Engagement Talk**

'John!' came the impatient cry from the kitchen. John sighed and marked the page on the book he was reading, putting it on the coffee table. A few seconds later, Sherlock stormed out of the kitchen, which was once again stuffed with experiments and severed body parts. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and there were a few angry red spots on his forearms.

'What've you done now?' John asked, failing to sound concerned anymore.

'This experiment isn't working with me. Not enough data. No preferable outcomes. It's basically just sitting there and mocking me,' the detective spat.

'And it, ah... _hurt _you?' John smirked with a cooing voice as he looked at Sherlock with wide puppy eyes. 'Do you need a kiss on that?'

'Please, John,' Sherlock said sarcastically, flopping on the sofa beside his fiancé. 'A kiss hardly helps relieving any sort of pain I might be experiencing right now.' He inspected his arms with a frown, blowing his wild curls out of his eyes. John thought the movement was quite adorable, though he'd never say so to the detective's face directly.

'What's happened, then?' he asked instead, dragging his eyes over the small burns on Sherlock's white skin. As much as John had gotten used to Sherlock's rants about his experiments, he didn't want him to get hurt.

'A combination of heat and a burning substance which apparently should not be disrespected,' Sherlock murmured. He winced when John grabbed his arm to inspect the burns with his trained eye, but he bit his tongue and refused to whimper.

'Oh, Sherlock,' John tutted. 'Do please protect yourself, will you? You can't just play around with burning acid with just your rolled-up shirt sleeves.'

Sherlock sighed angrily and pouted his lips, making him look like a petulant child. 'I'm so _bored_, John!' he exclaimed. He slid down the backrest of the sofa until his head was on John's lap, and he stared at the ceiling.

John rolled his eyes and ushered Sherlock back up again. At the sight of Sherlock's growing pout, he chuckled and told him he'd only get the first aid kit again to patch up his arms – God, he needed to patch Sherlock up a lot – and he'd be back soon so Sherlock could resume his mocking with his head in his fiancé's lap.

Sherlock nestled his curly head in John's lap again, sighing contently. He felt John's delicate hands poke and prod his arms, but he was well past the point of feeling any pain; throughout his life he'd had more near-death experiences than most people and one had hurt more than the other. That and John's hands were careful not to inflict any more pain on him.

'John,' he said in a pondering voice, 'I think we need to talk about our engagement.'

John smiled. 'Yeah, I think we do. We haven't really discussed it since you asked me last week... So what is it exactly you want to talk about right now?'

'Well,' Sherlock began, 'I think you need to know that I'm not really the marrying type to begin with...'

'Are you backing out?' John asked, keeping his voice light though he was feeling doubt bubble up in his stomach, making him feel slightly sick. His grip on Sherlock's arm faltered a bit and though there was nothing in the doctor's voice, the detective could feel the tremble in his hands and he smiled, soothingly rubbing John's hands with his own.

'Of course I'm not, John. I just wanted you to understand my perspective of things.'

'Right,' John said sheepishly, resuming his treatment of Sherlock's arms. 'You're not the marrying type, I understand – I have to admit that I didn't see it coming, to be honest with you.'

'You said, "I thought you'd never ask".' Sherlock smiled at the memory.

'And I meant it,' John said, finishing up on Sherlock's arms by putting a mild crème and a soft bandage around each of the bigger burns. He then put his first aid kit on the floor beside him and buried his hands in Sherlock's dark curls. 'But why did you propose to me if you're not all that into marrying?'

Sherlock sighed. 'Look, John. I regard marriage as a thoughtless folly. Okay, so you love each other, be happy and move on. Instead, people dwell on the doubts and the questions and they want them answered and confirmed. And in their minds, the right way to verify such things is by marrying. And when they realise that all their problems aren't over yet, things go wrong and the marriage is ended, and therefore the relationship is ended. You see what I mean, John?'

'I don't have any doubts,' John said with a frown, stroking the strands of dark hair on Sherlock's forehead.

Sherlock's expression softened and he seemed to lean into the touch. 'I didn't think you would, John.'

John smiled. 'Okay, so...?'

'So,' Sherlock muttered, 'I decided to re-evaluate my opinion on the matter of marriage.'

'And what came out of that?' John asked, forming a mental picture of a pacing, violin-playing Sherlock thinking about the act of marrying. He grinned.

'I still believe it is utter nonsense,' Sherlock said boldly, wiping John's grin off his face. 'Listen. It is still the confirmation of love to both parties. I already know you love me, and you already know that I love you. At least, I hope so...?' he muttered questioningly, tilting his head as he opened his eyes to look at his lover.

'I do,' John said as he took Sherlock's hand and kissed his knuckles one by one.

'Good,' Sherlock said, not able to keep a goofy smile off his face as he closed his eyes again. 'Then what is the point of putting it black on white, with our signature underneath it, saying we're legally together? Nothing would actually change when I say "I do", not in our daily lives.'

John disagreed but stayed silent nevertheless.

'All that fuss with rings and a ceremony and guests and wedding vows...' Sherlock went on, a definite scowl on his face. 'What's it supposed to do with me loving you? Or you loving me? When I kiss you every day, tell you I love you every day, drink your tea every day, sleep in your arms every day, hold you when you have a nightmare, clean up the kitchen or eat properly for a day, wouldn't that be enough?'

'Then why did you propose to me?' John said suddenly, still feeling as if Sherlock wasn't very keen on marrying him after all.

'Because I care,' Sherlock said, opening one eye to look up at John. He smirked when he saw the disconcerted face of his fiancé. 'John, I thought a long time. And even though I think marriage is unwise in most occasions, I believe that ours won't be a mistake.'

John smiled, a wide, mind-blowing smile that had Sherlock curl his arms around his waist and nuzzling in his woollen jumper, trying to hide his blush.

After a while, John spoke again. 'I do need some clearance on this,' he said with a laugh. 'Why are you so sure that our relationship won't break? Why are you so willing to let go of your opinions, which you've had your entire life, just to please me? Relationships are not only about giving, Sherlock, it's a combination of giving and taking, and respecting.'

'I know that, John. But you've already given so much, you had to accommodate to my lifestyle, even before we were in a proper relationship. And I don't think I mind all that much.'

'But we're happy like this, aren't we? We love each other, and you believe that that is enough.'

'And why not go one step further?' Sherlock said softly, sitting up to whisper in John's ear; 'I know you believe that marriage isn't pointless.'

'I don't,' John said, shivering at Sherlock's warm breath brushing past his ear. 'I think it's an act of love, not of insecurity. Sure, there are problems in relationships, no marriage is perfect – we certainly aren't perfect – but when you asked me to marry you, I felt so incredibly happy. To you it's a common act to avoid any problems between a couple, but to me it felt like you opened up to me, as you never do with others.' John gave Sherlock a small peck on the mouth, which was still close to his ear, and put an arm around him, drawing him close. Sherlock, being, once emotionally opened up, a more dependent person than John had anticipated, snuggled against his side, throwing a possessive arm around John's waist. He pressed his lips to John's neck before smiling and muttering, 'I felt like that, too. I felt quite vulnerable, as I am not really used to.'

'You sort of put yourself into my hands,' John mused, resting his chin on Sherlock's dark curls. 'And I'm grateful that you were willing.'

'What if you said "no"?' Sherlock questioned to himself. 'What would I have done? Surely I wouldn't be able to go back to how it was before, to our relationship before I put it in such danger. I would never be able to delete this from my hard-drive, I wouldn't stop questioning why you wouldn't do the thing with me which is in your opinion so obviously an act of affection and love.'

'Sherlock, I reckon you're over-thinking this,' John said, rubbing his fiancé's shoulder.

'I'm always over-thinking everything!' Sherlock said. 'Every possible consequence of every possible scenario is directly open to my mind and I can never stop thinking about the "what if"s. It's just how my brain works, John.' He said it with a tone of finality but John knew they were not done talking just yet. He wriggled beneath Sherlock, trying to find a more comfortable position. Sherlock backed off uncertainly but John pulled him down instantly so they were half-lying, half-sitting on the settee, John stroking Sherlock's curls absently.

'I know how your brain works,' he said softly. 'And I know how you as a person work, I know you, Sherlock. And that is why I love you, because you are you.'

'Does this have anything to do with our engagement?' Sherlock asked, looking at John from the corners of his eyes, snaking his arms around his lover's neck.

'Oh, yes,' John whispered. 'We got engaged because we love each other, you see. And I, Sherlock Holmes, love you.'

'That's new,' Sherlock muttered with a smirk and he closed his eyes, feeling the tip of John's nose touch his own. He tilted his head to the right slightly and met John's lips in a slow kiss. He felt John's hands on his waist and the parting of his lips. He drew in a small gasp when John's tongue met his own and let his hands roam around John's shoulders and neck, caressing his cheeks with the lightest of touches. They kissed languidly and slowly, somehow more lovingly and with more respect now they were engaged and soon-to-be husbands.

Sherlock smiled. 'I didn't think I could be content with the idea of marriage,' he whispered, his lips brushing against John's as he spoke. 'But I suppose I don't really care what happens to us as long as I'm staying with you.'

'We keep talking about marrying,' John said. 'Believe me, I want to...' he kissed Sherlock again. 'But I don't believe it's entirely legal... I'm sorry if I'm wrong, but I don't see you as the type to elope to wherever it _is _legal.'

Sherlock grinned, showing a bit of his characteristic arrogance and mischief through all the cuddliness and the clinginess that he only showed around John. 'You forget that I have a brother who practically is the British Government. I'm sure I can get him to right some bells for us.'

'That would take years, if not decades, Sherlock,' John said, trying to be rational through the brilliant smile that clouded his face.

'Would that be such a problem? There's no hurry,' Sherlock said in a soft whisper and he pressed his lips to the corner of John's mouth. 'I don't know about you, but I feel perfectly content with how things are right now.'

'I have to agree,' John said, burying his nose in the crook of Sherlock's neck. 'Getting Mycroft to legalise our situation would mean telling him, though.'

'You don't want to,' Sherlock stated, turning his head to press a kiss to John's head, lacing their fingers together.

'Not yet,' John breathed. 'I kind of have to get used to it.'

Sherlock disentangled himself from John, this time assuring _him _that he'd only be a minute fetch the small blanket they kept next to the sofa at times the heating went out. He lay back down next to his fiancé and threw the blanket over them, their feet sticking out the end as they dragged it up to cover their shoulders. 'And how do you suggest to get used to it?' Sherlock asked once their faces were once again separated by half an inch.

'Exactly like we're doing now,' John said as he took Sherlock's face in his hands to close the small gap between their lips. They kissed again in that slow, wonderful pace; there was no rush, no hurry, just the two of them, lying on the sofa with a warm blanket and each other, their lips moving around one another passionately. John could feel Sherlock's searching hands underneath the blanket and gasped when he felt them slip underneath his striped jumper to run a delicate finger along his spine, flattening his hands out on his waist, his long fingers splaying out on his tanned flesh. Sherlock's thumb continued to rub circles on John's abdomen and the doctor inched closer, his own hands roaming Sherlock's body lovingly. He passed the detective's waist and buttocks, tickling over the back of his thigh, reaching the sensitive spot behind the knee. Sherlock shuddered in delight and parted his lips at John's gentle but eager probing. He smiled slightly at the feel of John's tongue on his lower lip; John was so predictable.

'What?' John asked, keeping his eyes closed as he kissed his way up to Sherlock's jaw to his earlobe and down his neck.

'I'm just happy,' Sherlock murmured. 'With you, and me. And our soon-to-be best man.' He glanced at the mantelpiece, on top of which his skull was grinning at them. John followed his gaze and chuckled.

'You're not serious?' he asked, never sure whether Sherlock was joking or not.

'Well,' Sherlock said with a smirk, shrugging his shoulders. 'We might –'

'No,' John said sternly, pointing a fingers at his fiancé, poking him in the chest a number of times. 'I'm not having the skull at our wedding.'

'Have it your way,' Sherlock grinned. 'Who do you want your best man to be, then?'

'I think that the closest friend I have aside from you is Greg; I think I might want him there.'

'Same goes for me,' Sherlock chuckled. 'About the friend thing,' he added when John shot him a weird look.

'And what about you?' John asked him.

'I think I owe Mycroft some favour.'

'Mycroft?' John scoffed. 'You can barely refrain from arguing when you're in the same room. We might need your mother there.'

'Despite our differences in opinion, we do have a history, John. As much as I sometimes want for us not to be related, he is still my brother and our relationship is not as bad as it seems, nor has it ever been.'

'Oh, right,' John said, feeling a bit sheepish. 'Should've known.

'It's nothing to worry about, my dear doctor,' Sherlock said with a small, genuine smile. 'Anyone who's ever seen us together would have jumped to that conclusion. But when we are being childish and resentful, it actually is a sign that everything is alright.'

'How is that alright?' John asked, looking up at his fiancé with a frown.

'John, the only time that Mycroft and I show any kind of emotion towards each other than cold bitterness is when very serious things occur. Like when our father died; like when I was going through my rehabilitation process. The difficult times in our lives are the only times me and my brother are... connected,' he tried to describe.

'You've never talked about your dad or your drug problem with me,' John said, brushing Sherlock's cheek with his hand.

'And if you don't mind I'd rather not today,' Sherlock whispered harshly. 'But I suppose that the point is, Mycroft is there for me when I need him, and I am for him in return.'

'Well, that's good, isn't it?' John said softly, stealing a quick kiss from him and curling up neck to him, feeling Sherlock's wiry arms around him within seconds. 'Anyway,' John said tiredly, 'Mycroft will be your best man. Any other thoughts on how our wedding should be? You have the most objections, I'm letting you decide. No chance in organising our wedding without you and having you scowl at everyone and everything.'

Sherlock chuckled and kissed the top of John's head. 'You know me so well, John. I must congratulate you.'

'Are there objections, then?'

'Certainly.'

'Do tell me.'

John heard Sherlock snicker and he rolled his eyes, knowing Sherlock couldn't see him doing it. 'Okay; even though I do want for us to be lawfully wedded, I loathe exaggerated weddings; no flowers, no church, no big ceremony, no vows, with only the people closest to us in our lives and I will not be attending any sort of reception party.'

John laughed as Sherlock drew a lungful of breath. 'That's quite a long list. Why no vows?' he asked.

'John, I won't need to tell you the depths of my love for you in front of everyone we meet daily when I will tell you that very night.'

John blushed and was beyond the point of caring whether Sherlock noticed or not. 'I think I can live with that,' he whispered. 'Are you okay with kissing in front of everyone, then?'

Sherlock hesitated. 'I am. We already did it once, anyway.'

'Christmas dinner,' John nodded.

'Indeed,' Sherlock confirmed.

'And, erm... Would you mind a small dinner before the _humble _ceremony?' John asked, making sure Sherlock wouldn't jump to the conclusion of an "exaggerated" one.

'I think I can sit through that,' Sherlock said ponderingly. 'As long as I don't have to sit next to Mummy or someone like Anderson...'

'Anderson is not invited,' John muttered with a grin.

Sherlock looked at him with a gleam in his eyes that John could only describe as pride and adoration. 'God, I love you,' he said, hugging John tightly to him.

John laughed again, hugging his lover back. 'You'll have to wear a tie, though.'

Sherlock groaned audibly. 'Do I have to? Ties are pointless.'

'My request,' John whispered in his ear. 'Never seen you in a tie before; should be... interesting. And besides, if you're so keen on taking it off, perhaps I can do that for you... that very night you'll tell me the depths of your love for me...'

Sherlock's cheekbones coloured a light, adorable shade of pink. 'In that case, I should be glad to wear one, Doctor Watson.' He leaned forward, but before he could press his lips to John's, he heard another whisper.

'Oh, but, Sherlock? I do want a wedding ring.'

* * *

John loved this; walking in a leisurely pace beside his fiancé, holding his hand as they strolled through the busy streets of London in the evening. The air was cold around them, as it was February, and there was just the tiniest trace of a possible snowy night.

'I proposed to you, so it should be me who pays for them,' Sherlock said, pulling his coat tight around him.

'And you're not going for anything less than the real thing? Real silver?'

'Unless you want a little diamond in it,' Sherlock chuckled.

John slapped him on his backside. The thud was dulled by his coat, but Sherlock could still feel it. 'You idiot,' John muttered fondly.

'You were the one who wanted them in the first place,' Sherlock told him, curling an arm around John, drawing him close. John did the same and shook his head.

'Do I detect an objection?' he teased.

'Consider this your wedding present,' Sherlock danced around the question.

John scoffed. 'Alright, then. But I expect you to wear yours properly. Are we going to tell people soon, though?'

'If you wish,' Sherlock said, ignoring the obligation. 'We can talk to Mrs Hudson tonight, and to Lestrade and Mycroft tomorrow.'

'And Molly?' John asked. 'Harry would like to know as well. And Mike.'

'All tomorrow,' Sherlock said with a smile. 'Or would you like to bring them all together for another "Christmas dinner"?'

'I would if someone else was my fiancé, but I know you would want to make a big fuss about it. We'll call and visit them, then.'

'How do I deserve you?' Sherlock muttered as he kissed John's cheek, drawing attention from a few people around them.

'You need to call your mother, though,' John continued, a light blush creeping up his face.

'John,' Sherlock said with a big sigh. 'You don't know my mother and weddings; she takes them over. If I tell her, we'll end up with all the things we didn't want.'

'Then I'll tell her that we're planning our own wedding,' John calmed him, rubbing his side soothingly. 'She'll understand.'

Sherlock just huffed, but didn't disagree. He just hugged John tighter. 'You decided on silver, then?' he asked once they stopped outside an expensive jewellery shop.

'Well,' John said, 'I like silver better than gold. Reminds me of the moon instead of the sun. Sun just reminds me of Afghanistan and the moon... makes me think of you,' he decided rather sheepishly, almost wishing he hadn't said that out loud.

Sherlock's expression softened. 'Quite right,' he whispered as he took John's hand again. He opened the shop door and pulled John inside with him.

'Can I help you, gentlemen?' the posh-looking man behind the counter asked greedily.

'We are looking for men's wedding rings,' Sherlock said calmly. 'Silver ones, not too flashy. Custom made, please.'

The man's eyes flashed to their joined hands and he smiled brightly. 'Congratulations, gentlemen. Always a wise decision, picking a ring together; less chance of disappointment.'

'Actually, he just forgot,' John said happily. 'Nice one, I've got.'

'No, sir; that just means he is carefree,' the man said with a small wink. 'You'll get somewhere with him. Over here, gentlemen.'

John gave Sherlock a wide smile and stepped forward, following the man to a small corner of the room. He showed them a small variety of silver bands and they picked the simplest – though not necessarily the cheapest – and had their orders placed.

'Could you get our initials engraved on the inside?' Sherlock requested.

'Certainly, sir, certainly. That will cost extra, though.'

'Not a problem. SH and JW,' he told the man when he asked for it.

The salesman chuckled. 'That's funny, these two blokes keep popping up in the news. One of them keeps a blog...' His voice trailed off when he realised, but Sherlock's coat had just vanished around the door when he looked up.

'Our initials?' John repeated with a smile as Sherlock snaked an arm around his shoulders.

Sherlock shrugged. 'Thought I might want to add a little something of my own. As a real gift.'

'Suppose I have to get you a gift as well,' John mused, snuggling his head on Sherlock's upper arm, resting his hand on the small of the detective's back.

'You really don't have to,' said Sherlock quickly.

'No,' John contradicted. 'You already bought me that pistol and now the rings. Besides, I already thought of something.'

'Oh?' Sherlock voiced his surprised thoughts. 'And what might that be?'

'You'll see,' John said mysteriously.

Unusually happy when they got back to their flat, they decided to go by Mrs Hudson's one floor down. The old, energetic woman greeted them with delight as they came into her flat, hugging them to her small, but surprisingly strong body.

'Sherlock, John,' she said fondly. 'Sit down, I'll make you a nice cuppa.' And she shuffled to her kitchen while Sherlock and John sat next to each other on the small settee, looking at each other with an excited blush (Sherlock noticed how John's nose always had an adorable red colour when they came out of the cold) and Sherlock rested his hand on his knee, palm open for John.

When Mrs Hudson came back with a tray full of tea in her porcelain teapot and a bowl of biscuits, her two tenants were holding hands and looking extremely gleeful.

'I sense that you have something to tell me,' she said with a faint smile creeping on her face as he put down the tray on the coffee table.

'In fact, we do,' Sherlock said. After a millisecond of hesitation, he said, his voice steady but his face trembling with happiness and nervousness, 'I proposed to John last week.'

Their landlady's face lit up as he spoke the words, and John could almost hear the squeal that she desperately tried to hold in. 'Oh, that's lovely, dears,' she exclaimed, standing up and sweeping them both in a big hug again. She didn't need to ask whether John had said "yes"; she was a smart and perceptive woman. No couple of which one party had proposed and the other declined would sit next to each other, holding hands and so obviously happy.

'Well, I really am happy for you,' she said as he sat back down. 'Did he even have a ring?' she whispered with a smile, looking at John.

John shook his head, and laced his fingers through Sherlock's. 'D'you know what he said? "Knew there was something missing".'

Mrs Hudson laughed and even Sherlock cracked a smile. John and Mrs Hudson chatted for a while and Sherlock watched in silence, feeling happier than he ever had before in his life. But then, Mrs Hudson, being a woman after all, asked the inevitable question; 'How do you want your wedding to be?'

John looked at Sherlock. 'We... have only decided on the big lines.'

'You haven't picked a location yet?' Mrs Hudson asked.

'We've picked where we don't want it to be,' Sherlock gave a helping hand. 'I detest churches. And I don't want too much fuss. No silly decorations, no vows –'

'Because he'll tell me in private,' John added, kissing Sherlock's cheek.

'John!' Sherlock hissed.

'Oh, I understand,' Mrs Hudson said. 'Inside or outside?' she continued as if she hadn't heard anything.

'I thought perhaps on the spot I proposed to John,' Sherlock said quietly. John's jaw dropped in wonder and admiration. 'Oh, Sherlock...' he whispered, barely audible for anyone else but his fiancé.

'And where is that?' Mrs Hudson asked curiously.

'My mother's garden,' Sherlock said. 'It's in this area surrounded by high hedges and a fountain in the middle.'

'That's very romantic,' Mrs Hudson said dreamily. 'Well, off you go, have a nice night in,' she said, shooing them off with a big smile when their cups were empty.

'Thanks, Mrs H,' John said, directing his fiancé upstairs with a hand between his shoulder blades. He blushed heavily when she called after them, 'Do I need my earplugs tonight?'

Sherlock chuckled and called back casually, 'Wouldn't take the risk, Mrs Hudson!'

'SHERLOCK!' John yelled, bounding after the detective. Mrs Hudson retreated to her rooms again, chuckling to herself.

Sherlock hurried up the stairs, laughing with mirth as he heard John come after him. A bit too late he realised that John had grabbed the back of his coat and he turned around, pressing his back against the door to their flat. John pulled his face closer by his blue scarf and whispered in his ear, 'You shouldn't have said that, Sherlock. I can get very, very... _dangerous_.' He breathed the last word, pressing a tiny kiss to Sherlock's earlobe as he wound the scarf around his hand.

Sherlock's breath hitched audibly, his hand automatically clutching to John's side. His other hand searched for the doorknob, and, finding it, he opened the door, stumbled in backwards and used his now free hands to yank John's face closer by the collar of his jacket.

'We both know that dangerous isn't a problem in this relationship,' he whispered. 'Now shut up and kiss me.'

John did as he was told, seizing every opportunity to be the one to kiss Sherlock first instead of the other way around; it was usually Sherlock who leaned down to wind his arms around John's neck and drag him into a passionate kiss, but John didn't have that advantage with his height. He could occasionally grab Sherlock's coat collar or his scarf and pull him down, but only when Sherlock let him. Or, in this case, when he offered himself to John completely. And John wasn't going to let a moment of dominance pass him; he kissed Sherlock slowly, not that desperately as he knew Sherlock felt. He knew the detective often wanted heat and passion in a situation like this, and by dragging it out he only heightened his attention and need. Sherlock knew this, of course, but he didn't do anything about it; secretly he loved John's strong arms around him, his lips and tongue circling around his agonisingly but wonderfully slowly, the soft caresses on his cheeks.

It felt weird to be able to give himself up to one single person for once, to put himself entirely in John's care. He knew that he would have hated himself for it before succumbing to these feelings for his flatmate, his colleague, his friend. But he couldn't help himself for wanting more, and more was what John gave him.

'Kiss me, John,' Sherlock repeated hoarsely, after John's lips had roamed around his jaw and neck for long enough. 'I need you to kiss me.'

A simple enough request; though John knew there was so much more behind that one sentence. If John knew anyone, he knew Sherlock. Sherlock did not let his guard down for just anyone, he didn't trust someone just because they'd done him more than a few favours.

Hearing those words come from Sherlock's mouth in a husky tone that said more to John about his love for him than the actual words themselves, he swept Sherlock in his arms, practically lifting him from the floor as he decked his fiancé's face in tiny little kisses. Sherlock clung to John as if his life depended on it and kissed back with a deep-throated moan as John finally reached his mouth.

'John – I need... I need –'

'I know,' John breathed, shrugging off his jacket.

They stumbled to the bedroom together, knocking a few things over in their hurry, though neither of them actually cared or even noticed. All that mattered to them at that moment was each other and how they needed to be with each other that night.

Already half-naked before they entered the bedroom, they fell down on the bed together, still in a tight embrace, their lips dancing around the other's. The kiss became more heated, deeper and needier, and Sherlock made more noises than he usually would and John loved it. He loved Sherlock's voice, and he loved the way his grunts were deep, animalistic growls, and his moans were the sexiest things he'd ever heard in his life and he was ready for Sherlock's body intertwined with his by just hearing him cry out.

John could barely contain himself when Sherlock was sprawled out on the bed below him, and it could be heard in his voice. 'You gave me permission,' he grunted, pinning Sherlock's arms over his head. 'Don't move.'

Sherlock obliged with difficulty, visibly straining against all the impulses his brain sent to his body. 'Yes, John,' he said in a husky voice, not helping John try to calm down.

John made quick work of the detective's trousers, shoving them down Sherlock's legs and ankles, eventually ending up as a rumpled pile of fabric in the corner of the room. Sherlock's toes curled around the edge of the bed as John's fingers were a feather-light touch on his inner thighs and he breathed heavily. He lifted his arms to curl one hand around John's neck to steady himself, but he felt a hot hand on his wrist and he was reminded of his order. 'Yes, John,' he said again, knowing exactly what his obliging voice did to John.

'Oh, Sherlock,' John breathed, seeing his fiancé so vulnerable yet still so in control. 'I love you.'

'If there were multiple ways to say "I love you", John, I would have said them all a million times by now,' Sherlock muttered, his voice a tad higher than usual.

'You have,' John said, his fingers a lingering caress on Sherlock's torso. 'Just not by words.' The whisper was close to Sherlock's ear and, restraint or not, Sherlock wrapped his arms around the warm bulk of muscles that was his fiancé, pressing kisses to his neck and the old, fading scar of the war wound on John's left shoulder. He wrapped his entire body around John's, noticing that neither of them were wearing any underwear anymore. He lay on his back, his arms tightly around John's shoulders, his legs wound around the ex-army doctor's torso. He breathed heavily into John's shoulder as their bodies came together and he exhaled into a blissful sigh, gently biting the skin of John's neck as his body tensed.

John groaned and pulled back slightly to kiss his fiancé. 'You're so beautiful,' he whispered. 'There really is no other word to describe you right now. You're just perfect.'

'As are you, John,' Sherlock gasped when John moved again. He pulled John closer with the heels of his feet, now pressed against the small of John's back. John was in too much pleasure to question how Sherlock was so lenient though and he continued to kiss him, slowly and gently, like the rhythms of their bodies; there was no need to hurry.

The pressure kept building up and ended blissfully for both of them, groaning into one another's neck. They lay in a panting heap for a few minutes, their hands ghosting over the bones and the muscles of the other man, before John got up reluctantly, cleaned them up and snuggled under the covers, next to Sherlock.

'Big day tomorrow,' he murmured against Sherlock's neck, pressing a kiss to that spot he knew was sensitive.

'Hmm,' Sherlock sighed. 'I wonder how they'll take it.'

'I'm sure they understand,' John said dreamily. 'And regardless of what they think, I wouldn't break up with you for the world...'

'Quite right,' Sherlock whispered, kissing John's hand and lulling in a peaceful sleep.

* * *

**Ah! So I know, I said I wouldn't upload in a while. Well, sometimes life just throws some luck in your direction! I got some free time and that left me to get on with this. I dunno where it came from, really. I just love the idea of the domesticity between Sherlock and John, and I think this chapter represents that well, and I love writing their dialogues so this came out.**

**Do please tell me what you think (and if it should be rated "M" because of the last bit, because I am not sure) and certainly don't expect any other updates any time soon. They might be there, but don't expect them. At least not the upcoming week. School 'n stuff.**

**Okay, so I really really really hope you like it (especially the end scene because too sexy sexytimes aren't my thing) and thanks for reading!**


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